Damage Limitation
by GallyGee
Summary: Malcolm decides on a fresh start away from Starfleet, but finds his old life isn't so easily abandoned. Chapter 18 posted. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I wrote most of this story before I had seen any of Season 4. I made a couple of minor tweaks subsequently to take account of Season 4, but mostly the story is unchanged. It is in British English and mixes drama and action, with some angst and humour along the way.

It is an AU and begins between 'Storm Front Part 2' and 'Home'. There are spoilers for 'Damage'.

Malcolm thinks he has left Starfleet behind, but Enterprise, Archer and Trip are still to play a significant part in his future, derailing the new life he has forged. (Those readers who found my 'Elemental' series of stories a little depressing might find a more satisfying resolution here… eventually!)

Many, many thanks to my beta reader, Rusty Armour, for the continuing encouragement that meant I got this story finished! Her insightful comments and suggestions have improved it immeasurably. I take full responsibility for any remaining errors as she hasn't seen the final amended version.

Disclaimer: the Universe and characters of Star Trek do not belong to me. I am making no financial gain from this story.

**

* * *

**

**Damage Limitation**

**by**

**GallyGee**

**Chapter 1**

The sun filtered through the large windows of the 602 Club, catching bright motes spinning in its light. The atmosphere was one of quiet restfulness.

Travis stepped inside and, not for the first time, marvelled at the complete reversal of character between the 602 Club by night and its daytime alter ego. Gone were the raucous groups of Starfleet officers letting off steam after a hard day at the Academy, research labs or pilot training, or whatever other arduous variant Starfleet could devise to test the mettle of its cohorts. Now it more closely resembled a sleepy small town coffee shop. A few cadets were dotted around the place, catching up on assignments or, in one case, some sleep. The frantic hustle was absent for a few hours until the club changed character for the night time revels.

Travis gave a soft snort. This place seemed so tame now, so safe. There wasn't much on Earth anymore that could shake him. He strolled over towards the counter, but then stopped in his tracks as he saw a friend and colleague squirreled away in the far corner, intent on a PADD.

"Lieutenant!" called Travis, pleased to see his shipmate. He knew that Malcolm could sometimes be found here at odd times but rarely coincided with him.

Malcolm snapped his head up, instantly alert. His initial suspicious and, indeed, almost hostile glare, was replaced by a broad genuine smile as he located the source of the hail. Travis smiled back, pleased that - at last - Malcolm seemed to be unwinding a little. The Expanse had taken its toll on the man. Admittedly, even before they had set out on their mission to destroy the Xindi weapon, Malcolm had rarely permitted himself to relax. However, that had virtually ceased altogether during their crucial mission to save Earth, and humankind.

Everyone had been stressed, but Malcolm had kept himself to himself. Travis doubted he had even confided much in Trip.

"Travis! Care to join me?" Malcolm pushed an adjacent chair away from his table in invitation, maintaining his open warm smile.

With a quick nod, Travis walked over and dropped down into the proffered seat. He said, "At last I've caught up with you. You know, you can be elusive at times!"

Malcolm gave a grunt of amusement. "The Scarlet Pimpernel, eh? Never mind…" He dismissed the reference at Travis' perplexed expression. "It's not through choice, I'm afraid, Travis. Every minute is scheduled for debriefings of one sort or another. D'you know they even had me timetabled to talk to a board on crew reports and, at the same time, to review weapons performance on the other side of the facility? I know I'm good, but even I had a problem accommodating them with that!"

Travis laughed, enjoying Malcolm's good humour. "I'm sure you could manage if you put your mind to it."

"Yeah," agreed Malcolm with a sly grin. "Coffee?"

Receiving Travis' approval, Malcolm called the waitress over and asked for a refill and an extra cup. "And a ham sandwich," added Travis, as his stomach rumbled appreciatively. Malcolm had already eaten, or at least ordered a few items, most of which were still present on the plate pushed to one side.

"You sure you want to be disturbed? You were pretty engrossed in that PADD."

"I know all this stuff backwards now," said Malcolm, running a finger along the PADD. "But if I look busy, I'm less likely to be bothered. " He sighed. "I know it's uncharitable of me, but I do get rather fed up with cadets declaiming that I am their hero for saving Earth. I thought it would've died down by now, but no… It's not even as though they know who I am. They see the shoulder patch and… well." He gave a theatrical shudder.

"Yeah. I know. I get the same thing," acknowledged Travis. "It doesn't bother me though." To tell the truth, he was enjoying the attention their success had garnered for Enterprise and her crew.

"Well, I guess it wouldn't bother me so much if any of them were… um… available. Some pretty civilians, now - that would be a different story altogether!" Malcolm gave a wry smile. "And there's no escape. I can't exactly turn up for a briefing out of uniform."

Travis laughed a little at his friend's discomfort, causing Malcolm to give a self-conscious shrug and grimace.

Observing Malcolm as he sipped at his coffee, Travis could make out the drawn lines in his face and a certain weariness in the cool grey eyes. Malcolm did look older. However, his colour was much improved since Travis had last seen him a couple of weeks ago and his whole demeanour was more laid-back. The tightly wound coil that had characterised the armoury officer during their mission had loosened up by several notches. It was good to see.

"How are you, Malcolm? You look well."

Casting a sidelong look at the wall, Malcolm made a wordless noise of assent but didn't commit himself to an immediate reply. Then he planted his elbows on the table and rubbed his thumb over his palm. "I'll be a lot better once all these debriefings are finished. I dunno, what with my own performance, my men's performance, officers' performance, weapons reviews, tactical reviews, shipwide security assessment, analysis of alien threats… Oh, and my absolute favourite…" Malcolm rolled his eyes heavenwards. "Joint MACO- Starfleet operations. Well, you get the idea. I'm going to be here for many months yet." He pulled a comically dismayed face.

"Months?" said Travis, considering the daunting list Malcolm had reeled out. "I thought I had it bad, but then I really only had myself to think about. I'm almost through and then I've got some leave owing." He couldn't suppress another smile at the thought. He'd been having a lot of fun making plans.

Malcolm gave a sniff. "Well, make the most of it because no doubt you will soon be a captain, and then you'll have all this to deal with, and more, when you get back from saving Earth next time!"

Travis blew his cheeks out. "I hope we don't have the need to do that again - save Earth, I mean." He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "And I think it'll be some time, if ever, before I'm made captain!"

"No, Travis," said Malcolm, serious now. "You've seen a hell of a lot and shown you can thrive under the worst the universe can throw at you. Once the Warp 5 class ships roll off the production line in greater numbers, they'll be crying out for seasoned officers. You'll reach the top, fast track. I'm sure of it."

Travis started. "Do you really think so?" He really hadn't thought much beyond the immediate future. He had been glad just to survive in the end. However, he always paid great attention to Malcolm's opinions on such matters.

"Yes. Absolutely," said Malcolm sincerely.

The waitress brought their coffee and the food over but didn't interrupt. She was pleased to see the lieutenant with a friend for once.

Travis made inroads on his sandwich while Malcolm sat back in his chair, sipping his refreshed coffee. It was a companionable silence. They had been through so much together they felt no need to rush to fill it. They both knew this moment wouldn't last forever and that soon they would be going separate ways.

Travis paused a moment, his initial cravings satisfied. As he took a gulp of coffee, he asked, far too casually to deceive Malcolm, "Have you changed your mind?"

Malcolm's attitude changed in an instant. His mouth thinned to an alarming degree as he sat up straight. "No. I'm doing the right thing, Travis. My father was right after all. Starfleet isn't for me, not any more." He chuckled, but it had an edge to it, and the smile didn't reach his eyes. "He's going to just love it when I tell him that."

"When will you say something?"

"Oh. Nearer the time. When I can get up the nerve!" Malcolm was sheepish.

Travis shook his head. "I can't believe - after all you've been through - that telling him will be a problem."

Malcolm gave a genuine grin, relaxing back in his chair again. "Umm. You haven't met my father have you, Travis? Perhaps I should arrange for you two to get together, then you'll see what I've said about him is completely true. Less than the truth actually!"

Travis grinned back. "It might be interesting!" He took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. "Malcolm, given what you say about the need for experienced officers, don't you think you should stay? You must be in line for promotion and a command before too long."

Malcolm shook his head. His voice dropped so Travis had to strain to catch his next words. "After that business with the warp coil we took... stole… firing on an innocent ship… That made me sick to my stomach, even though we had to do it to save Earth. And... well..." Malcolm grasped his discarded fork and pulled it through the thick sauce on his plate, idly forming swirling patterns. "I don't suppose that will ever be made public. My father won't know his son was a pirate, because that's what I became, Travis, when I fired that cannon."

"We are all responsible for that." Travis shifted in his seat, imagining every eye in the bar was on them, but when he glanced around no one was paying them any special attention, of course.

Malcolm grunted as he continued to fiddle with his fork. He shot a quick look upwards at Travis. "You less so. Much less, in fact. I should have been able to come up with another plan - I was tactical officer after all. That was my job. But…" He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. "I couldn't offer any viable alternative. At least I made sure I was the one at the tactical station. I couldn't order one of my men to do that particular dirty deed." His self-loathing was evident in the twist of his mouth and in his narrowed eyes. "And then there were the deaths, the other compromises we had to make - that are still being made…"

Distressed at having brought this up again and destroying Malcolm's fragile good humour, Travis was at a loss how to proceed. To his surprise, Malcolm lifted the mood himself. He sat back and, in a lighter tone, said, "Anyway, Travis, I've dealt with it... as much as I am able to. I have the future to look forward to, one which doesn't involve Starfleet."

"Have you got any firm ideas yet?" Travis was most intrigued. Malcolm hadn't given him the barest hint about the options he was considering.

Malcolm smiled. "As a matter of fact, I have. I've not told anyone else, but you are a proper candidate to be the first to know."

"Oh. I'm honoured. What is it?" Travis leant forwards, his previous awkwardness forgotten.

Malcolm tapped on the PADD to activate it and shoved it across to Travis. "What do you make of this?"

Squinting at the animated display, Travis could see rotating irregular shapes, bouncing off each other at strange trajectories. "Umm," he said, not able to even attempt a guess. It meant nothing to him.

"Another clue?" Malcolm gave another sharp tap to bring up a screen of scrolling data.

Travis frowned as he turned the PADD to read the writing.

"Come on," taunted Malcolm. "For a hot shot pilot, this should be easy-peasy!"

"Uhh. Are you going to run cargo?" said Travis uncertainly, unable to make any sense of the apparently unrelated information presented on the screen. He looked at Malcolm to gauge his reaction. Not even close, apparently, judging by the pained expression that met him.

"Nah. Come on. You know this. Use that fine brain of yours." Malcolm jabbed a finger in the general direction of Travis' brain.

Travis contemplated the puzzle, feeling almost as if it were some proficiency test. He couldn't make anything of it. Perhaps he wasn't good enough to make Captain after all? He hazarded, "Well, those icons reminded me of debris…."

Malcolm's patience expired and he brought the game to an end. "Close enough. They represent asteroids." Malcolm crossed his arms and gazed smugly at Travis. "I'm going into mining," he declared, a challenge in his eyes.

"What? Asteroid mining!" Travis was flummoxed. Asteroid mining was dirty, dangerous, crude and tended to attract miners with similar characteristics. He really couldn't see Malcolm fitting into such an unregulated free-for-all. "I don't want to pour cold water on this but-"

"Then don't," interrupted Malcolm. "I've looked into it quite thoroughly. There is always the need for a competent munitions man. I'll be freelance; that way I'll be in charge of my own life, for once - not taking orders. There's always someone higher up than you in Starfleet. Even if I made Admiral - highly doubtful, I know - I'd have committees breathing down my neck. It'll be strange, not having the sanctuary of Starfleet, but I think I can make it on my own. I have to try."

"Yeah, but don't you think you'll get bored with it? It's not exactly what you are used to," said Travis doubtfully. He knew what it was like to be cooped up with a small group of people and limited diversions. It had often proved testing for him on his parents' cargo ship and he had been born to it. Malcolm, in contrast, had managed a surprisingly high degree of independence on Enterprise, offsetting his onerous responsibilities. Despite his occasional railing at the constrictions of Starfleet, he certainly knew how to work the system. And no one could call life on Enterprise dull, even on the most uneventful days.

Malcolm raised an eyebrow in mock indignation at Travis' suggestion. "Hah! I can never be bored where explosions are concerned. Besides, I've got some new ideas I think they could try. They do tend to stick to tried and tested techniques, which aren't always the most effective."

"Miners aren't exactly noted for their innovation," agreed Travis remembering the uniformly conservative examples he had come across on his travels.

"I think I can introduce a little finesse into their lives, explosion-wise."

"Yeah, but-"

"I know all the objections, believe me. I have no illusions. But I need some time by myself for a while." Malcolm gazed earnestly at his friend. "It's not a life sentence, Travis. If I stop enjoying it, I'll do something else. Don't worry. You know I can take care of myself."

Reluctantly, Travis caved in. "Keep in touch, won't you?"

"Yeah. Oh, don't be so glum. It's months away yet, and I'm happy I've discovered what I want to do."

Travis grinned. It was worth a try he supposed and, at last, Malcolm had some untainted enthusiasm for a project. Travis raised his coffee mug in salute. "To Explosions!" he toasted.

"To Explosions," replied Malcolm, hoisting his mug in return. "And many of them!"

* * *

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: see Chapter 1.

I raise a mug to my reviewers - "To Explosions"! Thank you for helping me launch this story. It is complete but I am posting chapters separately to enable me to give them individual attention. I hope to be able to update reasonably frequently.

Also, thank you, Rusty Armour, for your 'blurb' :-) . It was a very pleasant surprise to receive it and much appreciated!

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Malcolm thrust the strap of his kitbag back on his shoulder and grasped the door with his other hand. He peered in. A ripple of air breathed over his cheek, carrying a heavy odour of engine oil mixed with a tang of ozone. The dimly-lit cargo hold of the small transport 'Carlotta' appeared deserted at first, but then Malcolm saw movement behind a stack of containers.

"Hello?" he called, prompting a dark-haired head to pop up over the stack. Malcolm saw a flash of white teeth standing out against the dirt-streaked face.

"Hi, there. Can I help you?" The man stepped around the containers, wiping his hands on a cloth. He was a large fellow, perhaps on the overweight side, although his dark overall fit well enough to disguise the bulk. Malcolm guessed he was one of those men who could move faster than they looked. There was certainly some strength there, he noted, as the man casually shoved a container back into line.

Malcolm stepped forwards. "Yes, I… Oomph!" He stubbed his toe against a box left just inside the doorway. His outward 'oomph' was accompanied by an internal curse. What an immensely stupid place to leave that, he thought, with considerable irritation. He gave the man a filthy look, not caring anymore how much he let his annoyance show. He'd been travelling for days - no, make that weeks - and, with nothing to do except sleep, eat and fret, he had acquired a considerable head of steam. The man chuckled merrily at the mishap, causing Malcolm's scowl to deepen.

"Sorry about that," said the man, striding forwards and waving an arm about at the crates. "I'm in the middle of ordering the cargo. I didn't expect any visitors, otherwise it'd be less of an obstacle course." He stuffed the rag in a pocket and offered his hand. "John Bailey."

Malcolm shook it, forcing a grin. He should at least try to be civil. "Malcolm Reed."

Bailey scratched the back of his head as he processed the information. "Ah, yes. I've already secured your cargo. Over here." He led the way deeper into the hold, skirting items scattered apparently at random about the place.

Malcolm trailed behind, shaking his head at the total disorder. There were containers, reels of cabling, kegs, nets of loose goods and the like, all haphazardly distributed with no logic that he could discern. He sighed, worrying about what fate might have befallen his equipment. He had packed it well enough, but was not overly optimistic about how it had fared. His recent experiences with other vessels on the journey had been an education. No one seemed to treat munitions and sensitive scientific apparatus with any respect these days. He regretted the absence of Starfleet's disciplined approach. There were rules and regs for most eventualities, and organising cargo was well covered. This utter shambles would be unheard of on a Starfleet ship. He regretted even more his lack of authority to do anything to improve the mess. 'Mister' Reed carried a lot less clout than 'Lieutenant' Reed - as he had already discovered.

Distracted by his concern for his explosives, Malcolm failed to see the cable strung across at ankle height. Just as Bailey half-turned to say, "Watch out for that…" the cable snatched eagerly at Malcolm's foot and he found himself flying in the general direction of Bailey's back.

Malcolm's unintentional rugby tackle was quite brilliantly executed, and the two men ended up in a tangled heap on the deck. Bailey recovered his breath first and began to laugh, his entire body quivering with mirth. Splayed out underneath him, Malcolm wheezed and thought of a few choice words. Unfortunately, he needed all the breath he could muster, so he was forced to keep his sarcastic comments to himself.

Bailey eventually heaved himself to his feet, wiping tears away from his eyes with one hand and offering Malcolm the other. Malcolm levered himself up onto one elbow. He gazed thoughtfully at Bailey's grinning red face and then his outstretched hand. Bailey wiggled it a little to emphasise the invitation. Malcolm briefly considered flipping Bailey over his head, but decided that could be construed as an overreaction. He didn't want a brawl to mark the beginning of his new career.

So, instead, Malcolm gave an insincere smile and allowed the other man to help him up.

"As I was saying," spluttered Bailey, still apparently finding this most amusing, "watch out for that line! But I guess you found it, in the end!"

"Yes. So I did," said Malcolm dryly, gingerly putting some weight on his left foot. Yep, he had sprained it. Nothing too serious, though. He brushed at his clothes in a - mostly ineffective - attempt to remove fine white dust picked up from the floor, coughing as some of it invaded his airway. At least his jacket and trousers were light-coloured, so the dust wouldn't show up too much. A small consolation.

As Malcolm smoothed down his disordered hair, he noticed that dust and grime coated ledges, the deck, most of the cargo... everywhere he could see, in fact. The place was absolutely filthy! That was not good at all. Yes - Carlotta might only be a humble transport vessel, but she was still deserving of respect. It demonstrated a sloppy mentality amongst the crew. Malcolm sniffed disdainfully, disgusted by the state Carlotta had been allowed to get into. There was no excuse for it, in his opinion.

Oblivious to Malcolm's disapproval, Bailey gave him a hearty slap on the back and said with a chortle, "Guess that little roll in the hay, or rather on the deck, means we gotta get married now!"

Malcolm turned slowly to Bailey. "Excuse me?" He wasn't sure he had heard correctly.

Bailey laughed again, a noise Malcolm was beginning to heartily dislike. "Only joking!" he said.

"I see," said Malcolm icily. Most amusing - not, he thought, gazing at Bailey with a sinking feeling. He was forming a nasty suspicion that he would have to endure this man for some time to come. Sadly, he didn't think that even in these distant parts, murder would be considered justifiable for the sake of one's sanity. Shaking his head, Malcolm grabbed his kitbag from the floor and slung it over his shoulder. Fortunately, the only item in it of any significance would not have been harmed by being dropped.

"Your stuff's over here," said Bailey, finally getting control of his mirth, although Malcolm thought he was still finding it far too entertaining, judging by the random chuckles he emitted. Malcolm sighed. He supposed out here one had to make one's own amusement. He fervently hoped he was not going to turn into an idiot, too.

Lifting aside a tarp, Bailey revealed the grey containers with red flashes warning of unstable materials. Malcolm limped up to them, taking in the unbroken seals and noting with approval the secure manner in which they had been lashed to the deck bolts. He tested the fastenings to discover they were taut.

Bailey ran a hand over the top container. "These'll stay put even if we lose all our grav plating and the cargo bay is shot apart around them by marauders. Gotta treat explosives with respect." He patted the container, all foolishness now gone from his manner.

"Indeed," agreed Malcolm, thinking that perhaps he had been too hasty in his judgement of Bailey. He couldn't be all bad.

----------------------

Some hours later, Malcolm was re-revising his opinion of Bailey.

Malcolm's offer to help load the remainder of the cargo had been accepted with alacrity by Bailey. Malcolm's sprained foot hampered him a touch, but it didn't prevent him from operating the handling machinery and hoists. He worked up quite a sweat, and felt a lot better for it. He hadn't had an opportunity to work out on his journey and had been feeling unfit.

However, his physical well being was tempered by his mental torture. Bailey was incessant in making his little 'jokes' and far too jovial altogether for Malcolm's taste. He had found himself becoming more terse by the minute in self-defence. He caught himself and tried not to be so curmudgeonly, but it was difficult. He found out that, indeed, Bailey was crewing the transport and was from the mining Facility, so there would be no escape from him.

Finally, the cargo was stowed in proper fashion. Wiping his hands on his overall, Bailey smiled. "Thanks for that help, Reed."

"Not at all. I'll put my kit away, if you show me where I'm bunking."

The transport was cramped, being designed for two-man operation with scant room for passengers. Most of the interior was occupied by the craft's engine systems, storage bays and grappling lines. What cargo couldn't be lodged shipboard was towed behind. The quarters allocated to Malcolm were dignified by that designation. In actuality, he had a locker and a pull-down bunk that stowed up against the wall when not in use. The bunk was in a passageway linking the flight deck with the engine room. It didn't bother Malcolm overmuch. He had a knack of being able to fall asleep in the most unpromising conditions and he had never really required much space. He owned little in the way of personal possessions.

Malcolm had a quick wash in the bathroom next to the galley and put his gear away neatly in his locker. With all the cargo now loaded, they would be on their way soon. Bailey was aft, carrying out a final walk around and then they would be ready.

Malcolm felt a flutter of apprehension. He hoped this was going to work out. It had seemed like an excellent plan back in San Francisco, but now the reality was near he was having qualms. He ran his hand over the back of his neck, massaging a kink that had developed from manhandling the freight.

A sudden footfall from behind caused him to spin about, fingers clutching for a non-existent phase pistol.

In front of Malcolm stood a long-faced man of about forty years with thinning red hair. He was tall, spare and had a sardonic smile as he held his hands up in mock surrender.

"Sorry to startle you," he said, an amused tone suffusing his words.

Malcolm stiffened at the mocking quality to the voice. Slowly he relaxed but could feel an embarrassed flush creep across his face. He said, with a self-deprecating smile, "I'm a little jumpy."

"So I see." The man seemed disinclined to continue.

Malcolm wiped a sweaty palm on his trousers and held out his hand. "Malcolm Reed," he said, trying to keep a friendly tone although the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up in protest.

The man eyed Malcolm in a considering manner, then shook his hand as if he were doing him a favour. "I know," he said.

Hell, thought Malcolm, you don't want to make this easy, do you? "And you are…?"

"Jeff Gomez."

For a moment, Malcolm thought he was joking. The pale freckled skin and light blue eyes did not demonstrate a Spanish ancestry. He kept a straight face, however, and the man smiled slightly. There was a more genuine quality to this smile.

"Thank you for that," said Gomez.

"For what?"

"Not making some infantile remark about my name."

Malcolm shrugged, not knowing how to reply.

Gomez peered around him to the locker. "Got everything?" he asked.

"Yeah. My freight's stowed in the hold."

"Ah, yes. Munitions." The condescending tone was back again.

"That's right," answered Malcolm evenly.

"You do realise that the mining Facility has a large stock of explosives?"

"I had assumed that would be the case, yes," replied Malcolm, re-setting his stance and crossing his arms. Not like his cargo, though, he thought smugly. He kept a poker face, however, and did not volunteer any information.

Gomez looked down his long nose at the Englishman. After a moment, he said, "I'm going to make the pre-flight checks. Do you want to sit in?"

"Okay," said Malcolm. It made sense to familiarise oneself with a new ship. They were all different.

"You're a pilot?" said Gomez, leading the way to the flight deck.

"Uh huh," confirmed Malcolm, limping in his wake.

"What types?"

"A variety," said Malcolm. No answer at all, really, but he didn't want everyone to know all about him within ten minutes of arriving.

Gomez didn't press the point.

Carlotta's flight deck was as neglected as the rest of her. Tape held one of the displays together, several buttons were missing on the control desks, and the panels were mismatched and dented. And dirty. Malcolm bit his lip to hold in the disapproval. What would Trip make of all this? It wasn't as if the fixes were difficult or expensive.

Gomez settled himself into one of the black bucket seats and Malcolm took the other - the co-pilot's place. The layout was fairly standard, he noted with a quick glance. The grappling controls were surprisingly sophisticated for the vessel. Not as advanced as Enterprise, of course, but as good as he'd seen on any other ship, including Starfleet ones. He pulled up the relevant display, moving the controls which directed the grapplers. Nice, he thought appreciatively.

Gomez leant across and switched it off. "You watch. You don't touch," he said.

Malcolm bristled but remained silent. Gomez was correct but he didn't have to be so abrupt about it.

Gomez ran through the rest of the checks, calling out each system as he came to it while Malcolm watched, somewhat concerned by a number of warning lights, which Gomez dismissed as being unimportant. Malcolm didn't press the issue as Gomez seemed to know what he was doing but it did nothing to counteract his poor impressions of the ship's condition.

As Malcolm had anticipated, the transport had one inadequate pulse cannon. He resisted the urge to ask about its yield. He could hazard a pretty accurate guess. It wouldn't be much use for anything except pulverizing the odd small rock.

"Do you have any problems with marauders in this sector?" Malcolm asked, noting also a lack of hull plating.

"No. Not much. Nervous?" Gomez gave an unpleasant sneer.

Malcolm chuckled. "No. Not much!"

Gomez' eyes widened at the echo to his words, then he gave a short bark of laughter. He opened up a little. "We have had an occasional raid to deal with near the Facility, but we aren't big enough for them to pay much attention to us. It's not worth their while. They prefer the more refined ore, not what we produce." He flipped on the pre-warm engine sequence. "I suppose I'd better find my co-pilot so we can get on our way," he said, easing up from the seat.

"No need!" boomed Bailey's voice from the door. "I'm already here!" He grinned broadly.

"When you're ready then, Mot," Gomez said mildly.

Malcolm moved to the rickety jump-seat at the rear of the flight deck and Bailey took his place in the co-pilot's position.

"Thanks for warming it for me, Reed," said Bailey over his shoulder. "You're being a most useful passenger!"

The ship shivered into life with a rising engine note as Gomez engaged the engines and then several loud thumps sounded through the hull.

"That's normal," called out Bailey to Malcolm. "It's the docking clamps releasing."

Malcolm knew that, of course, but he was appreciative of Bailey's thoughtfulness. The ship lifted off smoothly, although with a list to port, smartly compensated by Gomez. She set off in the direction of Mining Facility Deross, which - if all went as planned - was going to be Malcolm's home for some considerable time to come. He sat back and tried to think happy thoughts.

----------------------

With Carlotta set fair, the three men adjourned to the galley for a meal. Bailey took on the task of preparing the food, which he did by the simple expedient of placing some ration packs in a preparation unit. Gomez sorted out the drinks and soon they were settled around the small table.

Malcolm eyed his yellowish mash with suspicion, but it tasted better than it looked and he ate it without complaint.

Bailey squinted at him. "That okay?"

"Yes, thank you. Lovely," said Malcolm automatically, pushing another load onto the back of his fork with his knife. In his view, anything that he could actually keep down and gave him energy counted as adequate.

Gomez snorted. "Lovely!" he parroted sarcastically. "High standards then, Reed?"

Malcolm didn't deign to reply. He concentrated on his side dish, which was some form of green matter he couldn't quite identify. Local plantstuff, he supposed.

Bailey said, "By the way, people call me Mot."

"Oh?" said Malcolm, discovering a long stringy piece of vegetable suspended from his fork. He decided to roll it up.

Bailey carried on. "Do you know why?"

"Motte and bailey castles, I guess," said Malcolm distractedly, as he wound the green leaf around his fork and presented it to his mouth.

"Uh. Yes. That's right," said Bailey, deflated.

Oh damn, thought Malcolm, noticing Bailey's face fall. He felt a heel about removing a small bit of cheer from Bailey's life. He grunted, then tried, "Very clever. Not at all obvious." Like heck, he thought. "How did you come by it?"

"Oh. From my schooldays," replied Bailey, a little brighter at the compliment. "I thought it up, as it happens."

"Like I said, very clever," said Malcolm, as he finally succeeded in ingesting the leaf. It wasn't worth the effort. The chewy texture was hard work and he found it tasted like paper.

"What do they call you?" asked Bailey. "Any nickname?"

"No," said Malcolm shortly and with a full mouth, which would have horrified his mother. He had had several nicknames in his time, but none he cared to perpetuate.

"None?" asked Bailey, incredulously. "There must have been one at least."

"No," lied Malcolm with more vehemence, as he finally swallowed his mouthful. "Reed suits just fine, thank you."

"Oh, I think we can do better, don't you, Red?" Bailey raised an eyebrow at Gomez.

Malcolm glanced at Gomez in query.

Gomez gave a thin smile. "Original, huh?"

"Most original," agreed Malcolm with a small grin, thinking of all the 'Red's' he had encountered over the years.

"I'll do some thinking," promised Bailey, tapping his temple with a finger.

Malcolm rolled his eyes at Gomez, but said nothing. He got the feeling that Bailey was not one to be easily dissuaded. He would just have to quash anything unsuitable - which would be anything at all - that Bailey came up with.

Gomez sipped his coffee. He said to Malcolm, "Why choose Deross Mining Facility? It's remote - not near anywhere much."

"I could ask, why did you?" replied Malcolm, expertly turning back the question to avoid answering it.

Gomez gave a mirthless smile. He thoughtfully took another sip. "It is unique in its abundance of rare minerals. Difficult to find and extract them, but worth a lot when you do."

"Exactly," said Malcolm, although to his mind that was actually a minor point. The remoteness held a certain appeal for him, to be truthful.

Bailey gave a chuckle and shoved his elbow in Gomez' side. "That and the anomalies, huh?"

Malcolm pricked up his ears at the term, looking alertly at Bailey. "What do you mean? Anomalies?"

"He doesn't mean anything," said Gomez. "It's nonsense, of course."

"It is not," insisted Bailey, glaring at Gomez.

"It's stories, Mot. Nothing more," said Gomez in exasperation.

"Depends who you talk to," said Bailey, undeterred by Gomez' scepticism.

Trying to get some useful information, Malcolm asked, "What type of anomalies? Gravitational?"

"Gravitational? No! That would be strange," said Bailey. He pushed back from the table, balancing on the rear legs of his chair. "No. These are… ghosts, visions."

Gomez snorted and said caustically, "Mere daydreams, caused by the bored imaginations of miners who have nothing better to think about. Or malfunctioning sensors and viewscreens. Nothing more."

"No, Red. I saw one once, remember?"

"So you say."

Bailey huffed and allowed his chair to slam down. "I'm not discussing this with you again, Red!"

"Fine," Gomez said lazily. "That suits me."

Malcolm frowned. He had seen many strange things in his time and was not inclined to dismiss anything out of hand. Once he would have taken Gomez' line, but no longer. He asked Bailey, "How many sightings have there been? Are they always the same?"

Bailey leant forwards. "Three or four, and no, they're not the same-"

"Must we talk about this?" interrupted Gomez. "At least, wait until I'm not around. I don't want to hear those ridiculous tales again!"

Bailey said, "I'll tell you later, Reed."

Malcolm shrugged. It was intriguing, but he was sure he was going to learn as much as he could ever want to know before too long, whether or not he wanted to. He was quite happy to feign indifference in the meantime.

Gomez gathered up the dirty plates and shoved them in the cleaning unit. "I'll take first watch. I'll come and get you at changeover, Mot." He slid past Bailey's bulky form and through the door.

Bailey grunted an affirmative. He leaned back in his seat to grab a portion of pie from a cupboard behind him. After cutting a piece, he skated the dish over to Malcolm, who helped himself to a slice.

Malcolm studied the galley more closely as he bit into the pie. It was functional but tired-looking, like the rest of the ship, with peeling paintwork and flaked patches of corrosion, and even some rust in places. The table top was scratched where an unskilled 'chef' had ill-advisedly chopped up vegetables or the like on it.

"Does Gomez own Carlotta?" Malcolm asked.

Bailey shook his head, finishing a mouthful of pie in a leisurely manner before replying. "No. She belongs to the Facility. General workhorse. She's used for runs between the mining ships and the Facility, and the occasional trip to pick up supplies, like this one."

"Do you and Gomez work for the Facility?"

"Nah. Red's got his own vessel, the Mariposa. I crew for him."

"Oh. That's a mining vessel, I take it?"

"That's right. But at the moment, we can't get any work done. There's a problem with the engines. That's why we volunteered for this run. We've picked up some replacement parts for her."

Feeling full, Malcolm relaxed back against the wall and took a gulp of coffee.

Bailey grinned at him as he popped the final bit of pie into his mouth. "It'll be good to have a new face around. We don't have many changes to the roster. We need some fresh conversation. Who will you be crewing for?"

"I haven't arranged anything yet."

Bailey lowered his voice, which struck Malcolm as faintly ludicrous, since there was no way Gomez would hear a thing from the other end of the ship. "I can give you the low-down on who not to go with. There are a few crazy people out there. They seem okay until you get out to the fields and then they turn into raving loonies! Or are always boozed up and expect their crew to do all the work. And there's one guy, Grizzeli, who has managed to end up killing three of his men. He tends to work alone these days, but he might try to persuade you to go in with him."

Giving a half-smile, Malcolm said, "Thanks for the heads-up. I appreciate it."

Bailey waved a meaty hand. "Think of it as a return for your help with the cargo."

"Have you been working out here for a long time?"

"Yeah. Longer than I care to remember. It doesn't seem that long, but it's been over ten years. It gets to be a way of life. I don't know what else I would do." Bailey gave a belch and dragged himself upright. "Let's go through here," he said, indicating the small room opposite with several comfortable chairs.

Malcolm followed with his coffee and took a seat by a viewport. The stars slid past as Carlotta made her sure but steady progress. "So," Malcolm said, sipping the brew. "How many miners operate out of the Facility?"

Bailey frowned in concentration as he made a mental calculation. "I don't keep tabs on them, but about two hundred, I guess."

That surprised Malcolm. He hadn't expected such a large number. He gave a small grin. It meant more opportunities for him.

Bailey said, as if reading his thoughts, "You know most miners do their own blasting."

"So I'd gathered. I think there is still something I can offer, though."

Bailey gave a shrug. "Perhaps. But if not, I'm sure you'll get work of some sort. There's always a need for labourers."

Malcolm considered the point, but dismissed it. His precision demolition would be highly sought after, unless he was very much mistaken. He asked Bailey, "How many outfits are there?"

"Fifty or so. Three to four man teams are the most common."

"Are they all human?"

Bailey sat up straight. "Yeah. Of course," he said in surprise. "Why do you ask?"

"Just interested," replied Malcolm. He wanted to know if he would need to tailor his services to any alien customers. "Do you get many aliens visiting?"

Bailey said, "No, not many." He gulped down the last of his drink, placing the empty mug on the floor beside him. He carried on carefully, "Do aliens bother you?"

"What do you mean?" asked Malcolm, suddenly conscious of his body tensing as he imagined Xindi Reptilians rampaging through the ship.

"Some people find aliens kinda… disturbing," said Bailey, eyeing Malcolm.

"No. It's not a problem." Malcolm had always been pretty open-minded, prided himself on it, actually. That was one of the reasons why he had felt he was so suited to Starfleet. But that had been before the mission to the Expanse. Now, he tended to view aliens as inherently dangerous and untrustworthy – it was something more deep-seated than proper caution. That was one of the legacies he hated - how his objectivity had been compromised. He was still working on restoring it. Malcolm drained his mug and gazed into its interior, noting the rings resulting from inadequate washing. "No problem," he repeated softly.

Bailey said, "There are a few AAP people at the Facility, if that's what you want."

Malcolm said, "AAP?"

"Anti-Alien Party. You not heard of them?"

"No." Malcolm didn't like the implications, though.

"Where have you been! Haven't you seen their ads, their programming? I thought everyone knew about them!"

"Not where I was," said Malcolm, trying to hide his alarm. It had been bad enough when underground groups such as Terra Prime were causing trouble, but to think that this AAP was spouting off in public… It shocked him. How had he missed this development? Even as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer.

He had cut himself off from the outside world when he was being debriefed. Everything had been so difficult and he hadn't followed the news. It was unusual for him, but he had been in overload. Too much information, or misinformation, to try to offload and to take back on board. It had been easier to merely disregard everything outside and remain ignorant. Wilfully ignorant. Too lazy to form a view. Malcolm gave a snort of disgust. What had he come to? At one time, he had been ambitious, set goals, manipulated the system. Now he was drifting with no direction other than his immediate goal to 'go mining'. It was pitiful. He ran his hands over his face and around the back of his head.

"You okay?" asked Bailey, a note of concern in his voice.

"Yeah. Fine. I'm turning in now. It's been a long day." Malcolm got up, grabbing the mugs and crossed to the galley to put them in the cleaner. At least he still had some standards, he comforted himself, as the pie dish followed. If nothing else, the crockery and cutlery on this tub would be clean by the time they reached their destination. He wandered off to his bunk, looking forwards to sleep, and hoping the dreams would stay away.

* * *

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: see Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 3**

The days on Carlotta swiftly fell into a routine as was always apt to happen on a vessel. The three men took their meals together, and in between times, either Gomez or Bailey stood watch on the flight deck. Malcolm had considered offering to take his turn, but decided against it. He had come on this new tack in life with a view to being responsible only to himself. He had had his fill of having to look after others.

Instead, he occupied himself in the relatively brainless but satisfying task of restoring some of Carlotta's former glory. He was working away in the cargo hold, devoting an entire day to clearing it of the white dust, when Gomez turned up to see what their passenger was doing.

Malcolm had his back to the door and was running the suction nozzle over a waist-high ledge. He was completely unaware of Gomez' quiet approach until the latter cleared his throat to signal his presence. The unexpected sound made Malcolm jump, jerking the suction hose off the ledge. Taking a deep breath, Malcolm closed his eyes briefly, attempting to steady himself. He was disgusted with his nerves constantly betraying him. Was he ever going to regain his former poise?

Carefully schooling his face into a neutral expression, Malcolm turned to face Gomez. He was damned sure Gomez had intended to startle him, and he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much he had been rattled.

"You've been busy," remarked Gomez, revolving to study the hold.

Malcolm followed his gaze around as he coiled the suction hose away, enjoying a sense of accomplishment at the scene. There was some loose deck plating he wanted to see to, and a wiring panel that needed attention, but the bulk of the work in the hold was almost finished.

"Well, it needed doing," said Malcolm, remembering what it had looked like before he had rolled his sleeves up and got stuck in.

"I suppose so, but you won't get any thanks from the Facility Admin, you know. I bet they don't even notice."

Malcolm crossed his arms. "Yes, but I'll know." He almost went on to berate the Facility for its neglect but held his tongue. His motives were his own business.

"I came to get you for dinner," said Gomez. "Oh. Is that your gear over there?" He strode over to the corner where Malcolm's equipment was carefully stowed.

"That's right," said Malcolm, following him across. "Do you do your own blasting?" Now was as good a time as any to pitch for his first commission.

"Yeah," said Gomez, bending down to inspect the contents index on the nearest container.

"I could do a deal. To demonstrate what I can do, you pay only for the consumables and allow me to use the results to show others what's achievable." Malcolm held his breath and fought the impulse to cross his fingers. That wouldn't look too professional!

Gomez straightened up and rubbed his chin. "I don't like the idea of letting competitors access my accounts, which is what that would mean."

"It would only be certain details pertaining to one job."

Gomez pursed his lips. "Hhmm. I'm not sure."

Malcolm tried again. "It would be a good deal for you," he insisted.

"But I only pay for my explosives now in any case. Why would your idea work out better?"

"My techniques are much more efficient. I'll be able to get you higher purity ore and save you time in recovering it." Malcolm hoped he sounded convincing.

"It sounds intriguing. Okay, I'll think about it, but I can't promise anything. I don't like outsiders prying into my business. I'll want more information before I make a final decision."

Malcolm beamed at Gomez. "That's all I ask. If you let me have data on where you want to mine next, I'll begin work on the firing scheme and show you what I think will be achievable."

Gomez laughed. "A firing scheme, huh? Normally, I just place the charges somewhere near the right place and stand well back. I don't do any analysis first. Very well, I'll send some info to the terminal in the work-bay later on. You can access it from there."

"Great. Okay, let's go and eat. What's on the menu?"

"The usual when Mot's choosing," said Gomez, with a roll of the eyes.

"Gourmet night then, huh?" joked Malcolm, in good spirits.

----------------------

The next day, Gomez sent over the required data for Malcolm's demonstration scheme. Malcolm skimmed through the information, noting wryly that the navigational co-ordinates were conspicuously absent. He wondered if all the miners would be so protective of their working areas.

The data was not as complete as Malcolm would have liked - he would be able to achieve better with his own scanning unit - but it gave him something to start with. Any fine-tuning could take place on site when all his own equipment was available. Pleased to at last be getting on with some constructive work, Malcolm settled down to give it his best shot.

The time passed quickly as Malcolm became wholly immersed in his calculations. This type of work had a certain purity that appealed to him. He aimed to create the perfect profile - a three-dimensional puzzle… four dimensions when the timing of the blast front was taken into account. He was aiming for an almost surgical precision in extracting exactly the required amount of material. There was also a wholesomeness to the task. He could use his skills without the complicated emotions which arose when he directed them against people, whether human or alien. His professionalism had dealt with that in the past - the enemy was the enemy - but being able to ignore it altogether was liberating.

Malcolm came to the end of a complex equation and gave a grunt of approval. This looked good. Very good, in fact. It was going to be a persuasive demo - he was sure of it. Shifting in his seat, he became aware of a numbness in his right hand and a tight band across his back. How long had he been working on this? Glancing at the chronometer, he was startled to see how many hours had passed. He needed a break.

Slowly, he stretched his limbs and his back, straightening out the kinks. He was thirsty, too, he realised. He made his way to the galley and grabbed a coffee, making a second mug for Bailey who was on flight deck duty.

Bailey was slouched in the pilot's seat, working on something on his terminal. He looked up when he heard Malcolm and took his mug with a nod of appreciation.

Malcolm sat in the co-pilot's place, drinking and observing space through the window that curved around the front of the flight deck. Carlotta was travelling through a region with few landmarks. A yellow sun shimmered to port, a distant nebula could be seen to starboard and then it was a ripple of star systems, mere pinpricks.

Malcolm took in the vista with satisfaction. It was comfortingly vacant out there. "Not much to see," he commented.

"No," agreed Bailey. "It's a little more crowded near the Facility, but not much. We have to go out a way to get to anywhere worth mining." He returned to his terminal display and tapped away at a keypad.

Malcolm stared out of the window, his mind wandering. He wondered where Enterprise was now. What was on the giant viewscreen on the bridge? Would the Captain be eagerly seeking first contact, or off on some more belligerent mission? How was the new tactical officer coping with him, and with that temperamental starboard sensor array? How was Trip? Without warning, an immense feeling of homesickness enveloped Malcolm. He blinked rapidly to disperse the water that filled his eyes and swallowed hard. Where on Earth had that come from! It shocked him. He had never been homesick in his life. Well, not since his first term at senior school, but apart from that... He gave a long sniff and surreptitiously wiped his eyes on the sleeve furthest from Bailey.

Bailey had noticed something was amiss, however.

"Reed?" he said, peering at him.

Malcolm sniffed again and avoided looking at Bailey. "What?"

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Fine. Might be starting a cold."

"Oh. There's some stuff in the medical cabinet that might help," said Bailey. He didn't sound too convinced, but Malcolm really didn't care.

Keeping his back to Bailey, Malcolm got up to make for the rear of the compartment. He had had enough of stargazing and space for a while. The blasting model needed some more effort, but he didn't want to work on that in his present state of mind. His eyes landed on the taped-up display and its controls. Perfect! That would do the trick. It would keep him occupied and his mind from straying.

"Okay if I look at this?" he asked Bailey.

"Sure. Go ahead, although there's not much point. We don't use it much."

Malcolm sighed. Neither Gomez nor Bailey had any inclination to fix Carlotta, and as long as she was sufficiently spaceworthy, they weren't bothered. It bothered Malcolm, though, to have so much below par.

Twenty minutes later, Malcolm was sitting on the deck behind the pilot's seat, wrestling with the fixings of the display cover. He had taken the entire module out of the console to get a good look at it, but everything seemed seized fast. He grunted as the pin he was attempting to ease out remained stubbornly in place. He re-set the pliers around the item, braced himself and gripped hard. One last try, he thought, readying himself. He gave an almighty heave and the pliers shot out of his hand and across the cabin, hitting the screen of the grappling unit with a resounding clang.

"Bugger," swore Malcolm, shaking his right hand. A trace of blood snaked across it where it had ripped over an exposed edge of the display module.

Bailey swivelled around in his chair, laughing. Malcolm glared up at him.

"That some Australian curse word?" Bailey said cheerily. "Any more for my collection?"

Malcolm snarled back, "I told you before - I am not Australian. How about 'bollocks'!" Now his hand was stinging. "That works for me, too."

Bailey gave a hoot, and turned away to face front again. Growling his annoyance, Malcolm could quite happily have wrapped the display module around Bailey's neck. The cut was minor but he could see the crack in the grappling screen from where he was sitting. He had managed to damage what had been one of the few bits of decent equipment on the vessel. He swore again, quietly, so Bailey wouldn't hear, but Bailey clearly had keen ears because it was answered by another snicker.

Leaning back against the bulkhead, Malcolm mentally counted to ten, extending it to twenty when that proved ineffective. Bailey was still chortling away. Malcolm closed his eyes. That man could be so bloody annoying at times! He gave himself a mental shake, opened his eyes again and sat up straighter, determined not to be diverted from his task.

On inspecting the module, Malcolm could see that the pin had shifted a touch. Oh well, he had made some sort of progress, at least. Perhaps if he added a lubricant...? He moved around on the floor to look at the problem from a better angle.

"Oh," said Bailey, so softly that Malcolm barely heard him. Malcolm refused to be distracted and took no notice. Bailey whispered, "Wow. What _is_ that?"

"What?" answered Malcolm, without looking at him.

"Outside..." said Bailey.

Malcolm straightened up to peer over the control desk.

Through the front window, the black blankness had been replaced by a roiling mass of light: blues and violets with shattering cracks of brilliant white. The vigorous swirling had a hypnotic, pulsing quality to it.

Malcolm leapt to his feet and crashed down in the co-pilot's seat. A swift key tap brought up the sensor display. It showed a more layered image of what he could see with his unaided vision. There didn't appear to be any high-energy radiation but there was something being emitted that he couldn't make sense of. He tried to increase resolution but the equipment was basic and couldn't oblige. Not only that, he realised with great irritation, it could only draw on a third of the power it was supposed to operate on. He continued to work, fingers racing over the keys to get as much as he could from the device.

"Bailey, it's at a range of five thousand metres. We must pull back," he called out, keeping his attention glued to the display.

Hearing no response, Malcolm glanced across at Bailey, who was sitting rigidly in his seat, apparently so fascinated by the phenomenon that he was oblivious to the problem. Malcolm checked the display. Now only two and a half thousand metres! They had to do something, otherwise they would be in the thick of it.

"Bailey! Reverse thrust... Mot! Reverse the engines!" shouted Malcolm, but Bailey remained motionless.

They would soon be enveloped by the spectacle if they did nothing! Malcolm lunged across in front of Bailey, reaching for the engine controls and managing to throw them into reverse. There was no time for a smooth transition. With an unholy shriek, the engines complied and went into full-reverse. The inertial dampers cut in but were no match for this violent manoeuvring. Malcolm was thrust against the control desk, the breath driven out of him as his midriff met its edge. Bailey was flung forwards, too, his flight being arrested by Malcolm's body, which provided a soft landing for him.

Bailey snapped out of his reverie. "What...?" he spluttered in Malcolm's ear, feebly moving around.

Malcolm groaned, crushed between the control desk and Bailey. He viciously elbowed Bailey away to get room to move and, using his weight to thrust Bailey back, struggled to his feet and across to the co-pilot's position. Bracing his hands on the control panel, Malcolm squinted at the range display as his breath started to come more easily. With relief, he saw that Carlotta was gradually increasing the distance from the unknown threat.

The display showed something else, as well. The swirling patterns were becoming more ordered, and the energy levels appeared to be rising. But the range was still increasing, each klick as Carlotta reversed another step away from danger. Malcolm stared at the figure, as if willpower alone might make it grow even faster.

"What did you do?" said Bailey, sounding bewildered.

Malcolm ignored him, his entire concentration on the dancing energy fluctuations before him.

"What's that!" exclaimed Bailey, pointing ahead.

Malcolm had seen it, too. A form was now visible within the cloud. It was a ship, perhaps, its elongate rounded shape silhouetted against the bright blue light. Then there was an immense white flash. Malcolm and Bailey instinctively shielded their eyes, far too late to have any effect.

When Malcolm looked again, he was hampered by dancing spots swimming in his field of vision, but he could see that the ship, or whatever it was, had gone. The energy field was restless pure energy once more. Its energy levels were dropping, also. And Carlotta was still drawing away from it. Malcolm breathed a small sigh of relief, chewing at his lower lip. The phenomenon seemed to be subsiding. Perhaps this was not going to be a problem for them?

A stumbling footfall from the doorway announced Gomez' arrival on the flight deck. "What's happening?" he asked, his voice sounding shaky. He was very pale and had a nasty wound at his temple, the blood contrasting vividly against the white skin as it dripped down his face.

"I... I dunno," replied Bailey, still confused.

"An energy field of some kind," reported Malcolm. "It appeared dead ahead. We had to go into reverse to avoid running into the middle of it."

Through this summary, Gomez' eyes were fixed on the energy cloud still shimmering ahead. "I've never seen anything like that before," he murmured.

Malcolm said nothing to this. He turned to check his displays again. Everything showed that the phenomenon was still reducing, thank God. He hoped that soon they would be back in normal space.

Bailey said, eyes wide, "We saw a ship, Red. Right in the centre of it, didn't we, Reed?"

Gomez turned a sceptical face to Malcolm, who said, "It did seem to be a ship, or something like one... A probe, maybe."

"I can't see anything," said Gomez, stepping forward a pace to check the display readouts.

"No. It's gone now," said Bailey. Then, to Malcolm's complete and utter astonishment, he added, "We should go in there - see if we can find it."

Malcolm's jaw dropped as he took in this incredible proposition.

"Salvage, you mean?" said Gomez, with a predatory gleam in his eye.

Finding his voice, Malcolm, said, snapping the words out with icy precision, "Are you crazy? We have no idea what that is, we have virtually no hull-plating and our weapons array consists of a peashooter! We are fortunate to have survived this at all! I wouldn't take any ship into that, never mind the Carlotta."

"Carlotta's a sturdy vessel," mused Gomez, rubbing a finger over his chin. "Risky, but potentially very lucrative."

Shaking his head vigorously to refute this, Malcolm wondered what he had done to deserve these loonies. Whatever it took, there was no way he would permit them to fly Carlotta into that energy field. He tried reason. "In any case, we have no idea if that ship is abandoned. In fact, I would lay odds on it being very much not, otherwise why send it into this energy field." He glanced down again at the reducing energy levels.

Gomez laughed. "You're right, of course," he said. "Still, it's good to dream."

Malcolm muttered, "More like a nightmare." The readings were rapidly petering out and he could see that the brilliance in the window had faded. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. These people were lunatics to entertain that proposition for even a nanosecond.

Gomez said, "Too late, now, in any case. We'd better see what damage those manoeuvres of yours have caused to the engines, Mot. I didn't like the sound of them."

Bailey put in quickly, "I didn't do anything, Red. That was all down to Reed."

Malcolm shot him a cross look. "You should've kept us back from there. If you hadn't got so caught up in whatever that was, we could have got out sooner, without stressing the engines."

Bailey snarled back, his usual genial manner quite lost, "Don't lay this on me! You shouldn't have touched those controls. You're not crew on this vessel. You're in this alone, Reed!"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Do you think the Facility will foot the bill for those engine repairs? They don't pay for anything they don't have to. It'll be down to you, and I'm not getting involved." Bailey's face was more animated than Malcolm had seen before. The inane smile that usually hovered not far away had been replaced by grim determination.

Malcolm felt a sudden chill wash over him as he considered the ramifications of Bailey's words. Even a minor post-flight service was costly for an individual, but, if Bailey was correct, this could ruin him before he'd even started.

Gomez clapped Malcolm on the shoulder. "We'll say that if you hadn't acted, Carlotta would have been lost altogether. If we all stick to that story, the Facility should be okay about it."

Bailey said reluctantly, "Yeah. We can do that, I guess."

Malcolm said, "It's the truth, isn't it?" He hoped that the explanation would satisfy the Facility management. How far could he depend on these two miners? He wasn't sure.

"Come on," said Gomez. "Let's go check out the damage." He left the flight deck with Bailey lumbering after him.

Malcolm watched them go, then examined the readings again. Everything was back to as it should be. There was no remnant of whatever it was that had occurred here. He tagged the data record for permanent storage and sent a copy to the pilot's console. The Facility would send a copy to Starfleet for its records when Carlotta reached her base.

Having done that necessary job, Malcolm worked through the sensor readings again but couldn't extract much of interest. There just wasn't enough information there. He couldn't even make out what type of disturbance had been involved. Frustrated, he gave up. It wasn't his job anymore, but he hated not knowing. What happened if they ran into it again?

He went to clasp his hands behind his neck in an unguarded movement, hissing as it provoked a sharp pain in his side. Dammit! Bailey had struck again! Malcolm pulled his shirt up and gently probed around his ribs. They were tender but he was pretty sure they weren't broken. There was bruising beginning to show already, thanks to Bailey. That man was a menace, even when he didn't try to be. Bailey had been totally out of it. Was it a form of epilepsy? The rhythmical pulses of the field might well set a susceptible person off.

Malcolm gingerly slipped over to the pilot's position so he could check out the engine readings. A slew of red figures highlighted the damage the others were checking out. Despondent, Malcolm really couldn't find it in himself to follow them aft. He would find out soon enough.

That comment of Bailey's had worried Malcolm. He didn't have much of a cushion in funds. Most of his savings had been used up in state of the art scanners, explosive materials and other essential equipment. A Starfleet lieutenant's pay wasn't much to write home about. Starfleet didn't have to pay top dollar. It had numerous good quality applicants for every place at the Academy. No one ever entered Starfleet to get rich - there were other rewards. Malcolm had watched his savings increase each month, but it had been an academic interest then. Now, he was realising that budgeting was not such an easy skill as he had imagined. It was a shock to the system. He had never had to consider this complication to living before.

Restless, he tried to get comfortable, but then had an idea. He moved back to the co-pilot's seat. While the other two were occupied, he would take the opportunity to fulfil a promise and distract himself. Flicking the appropriate button, Malcolm began his letter.

"Recording: audio only.

"Hello, Travis. I said I would write, and here it is. Yes... I know I have been slow in sending it off to you. My only excuse is that I've been preoccupied with getting my new venture started. I've nearly reached Deross Mining Facility and already have some work lined up. Computer, pause."

He didn't know what else to put. Travis wouldn't be interested in the minutiae of explosives rigging or mining facts.

"Computer, resume. How is your new ship? I expect you are finding it a lot busier now you have more responsibilities. You really must push to go on plenty of landing parties, especially if you are able to lead them. That will give you the command experience to count towards your next promotion."

Malcolm grinned. He thought Travis would get ahead well enough without his advice. He would make a fine captain in due course, with the right experience.

"Be careful. Remember to gather as much intelligence as possible before making a decision, but don't let the lack of it stop you when you have to act."

What was he doing? Giving Travis a command lecture!

"What are your crewmates like? Do you all get on okay together? Have you heard from any of the others from Enterprise? Computer, Pause."

What else? Surely there was something else he could say?

"Computer, resume. Um. We just saw an energy cloud ahead of our bow. The sensor readings were inconclusive, but I think I saw a vessel within the cloud for a moment, then it disappeared. I've tagged the recording so it should find it's way to Starfleet fairly soon. Not that there is much to be gained from it.

"I'll write again in due course. I'm fine. I hope you are, too. Bye. Malcolm."

That would do it.

"Computer, finish recording. Send to Lieutenant jg Mayweather, Starfleet vessel Shenandoah."

Carlotta's comms system would automatically transmit the message when they got in range of a suitable relay, probably the one at the Facility.

Another job to tick off the list. Oh, damn! Malcolm swore silently. He should have asked how the change in department was suiting Travis. Never mind, that would give him something to put in his next letter, if Travis wrote back.

Malcolm stood to make his way aft, wincing at the stabbing pain across his ribs. He would have to see what the engine damage was - no sense in avoiding it any longer.

----------------------

Malcolm, Gomez and Bailey were gathered around the table in the galley, with mugs of coffee placed in front of them.

"So there it is," said Gomez, now sporting a bandage around his head. "The engines should be fine with a re-tune, but the inertial dampers are operating well below par. We'll have to slow down, but we're almost at the Facility. It'll add a couple of days to our time... no more."

Malcolm nodded. That was good. The damage could have been much more substantial.

Bailey said, "Time enough to fix that display you've got in bits, huh, Reed?"

Malcolm looked at him, remembering the vicious comment he had made previously. That part of Bailey was well hidden again. He gave a grunt but didn't reply, shifting again in his seat. He was finding it difficult to get comfortable. Still, it could have been worse. He said to Gomez, "You weren't really going to go in after that vessel we saw, were you?"

Gomez gave a thin smile and replied languidly, "No, I suppose not, or then again, I might have done."

Malcolm grimaced at the tabletop.

Gomez said, "You do have to take some risks in life."

Malcolm didn't answer. There were risks and there was damned foolishness that did no one any good, but he wasn't going to debate the matter. It wasn't going to affect him, not now the energy cloud had disappeared.

Bailey twisted to retrieve something from behind him and gave a pained grunt. "Damn. You didn't need to be so rough, Reed, you know," he grumbled.

"Huh?"

"When you took over the controls. This hurts!"

Malcolm gave an amused snort. It served him right!

Bailey was annoyed. "What's with you? Think that's funny, do you?"

Malcolm shrugged and gave a smirk. As a matter of fact, he was pleased that Bailey had received some consequences for his actions - or rather, inaction. Bailey flushed red. He lunged across the table and made to seize Malcolm by his shirt. Malcolm instinctively pulled back so Bailey was left clutching at air.

Gomez grabbed Bailey's arm to restrain him. "Steady, Mot! Leave him!" He gently pushed him down into his seat.

"Look at him! Sitting there, grinning, after he's done this to me."

Malcolm had had enough. He lost his smile and growled, "Oh, grow up, Bailey! You're barely hurt. It's your own fault, anyway. You should have done something."

"Oh yeah? You think you are so clever, don't you? I - "

Malcolm got up abruptly. "I've got work to do," he said quietly. He did not want to get into some ridiculous argument with Bailey. Ignoring the stabbing pain in his side, he strode out of the galley and made for the work-bay in the cargo area. He would go back to working on the display when Gomez had flight deck duty. He wanted to stay well away from Bailey for now. He didn't quite trust himself.

----------------------

Malcolm came awake with a start, disorientated in the dull light. A hand was pawing at him. He thrust it away with some force and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bunk. He got in a good crack at his attacker with his feet, slamming them hard into its body. The pain from his ribs didn't even register as he launched himself on top of whatever it was. He didn't care if it were a Xindi or Klingon emerging from that energy cloud. He wasn't going to submit lightly.

"Stop!" came a muffled plea. "Reed! You're having a dream."

Malcolm landed another good blow.

"It's Gomez! Stop it!"

Malcolm's fuzzy brain processed the words. Breathing hard, he stopped his assault, sitting back on his heels as the truth hit home and he became aware of where he was. He grabbed the edge of his bunk and pulled himself to his feet. Turning to the control panel, Malcolm increased the lighting to reveal Gomez sprawled at his feet, a new bloom of red staining the bandage around his head.

Wiping at the sweat running down his face, Malcolm blinked owlishly at the man. "What the hell are you playing at?" he croaked, sounding harsher than he intended. "I could've killed you!"

Gomez brought a shaky hand to his head, then rolled onto his side and leaned back against the opposite wall, his chest heaving. Gulping for air, he said, "You… you were shouting. A nightmare."

Malcolm realised he was soaked in sweat and shivered. It had been a long time since he had had such a bad one. Still… "I can cope with it. You shouldn't have tried to stop me."

Gomez gave a twisted, unamused smile. "You were being rather... disturbing."

Malcolm bit his lip, embarrassed. "Uhh, sorry." He bent down, ignoring the queasy sensation that induced, and got a closer look at Gomez. "I better take a look at that," he said, indicating Gomez' head. Gomez closed his eyes briefly in assent, still fighting to get his breath.

"Where else does it hurt?" asked Malcolm.

"Left arm," said Gomez, gingerly moving that limb. "Not bad though. Body's a little sore."

Malcolm carried out a quick, expert check, noting any tender areas. Thankfully, Gomez seemed all right, relatively speaking. "I don't think there is anything serious. We'll get the medical kit out and find an analgesic." Malcolm lurched to his feet, wrapped his left arm around his ribs and offered Gomez his right. As he pulled Gomez up, Malcolm couldn't prevent a hiss of pain.

"Are you okay? I didn't think I hurt you," said Gomez.

"I'm fine," said Malcolm, through gritted teeth. "Let's get you seen to."

They made their unsteady way to the lounge area where Gomez dug out the medical kit. Malcolm rummaged around for the appropriate drug and filled a hypospray.

Gomez immediately relaxed when the dose was delivered. "That's better," he said, in relief.

"Good. I really am most sorry."

"It's okay. You didn't mean to do it."

"No... but still..."

Malcolm removed the bandage and examined the cut over Gomez' eye. It had re-opened but already the blood flow was slowing. After cleaning it up, he applied a new dressing and wrapped a fresh bandage around to keep it in place.

Gomez looked up at him curiously. "Are you a medic?"

"Basic field medic," replied Malcolm, concentrating on the job at hand as he had another look at the injured arm. "Just bruised, I think," he said, picking up a medical scanner to check.

"You're ex-military?"

Malcolm paused a moment. "Starfleet, actually," he said. He wasn't going to make a big issue of his past. Why should he?

Gomez gave a grunt. "That explains it, then."

"What? Why I attacked you?" said Malcolm defensively.

Gomez gave a short laugh. "No. Your shiny boots!"

Malcolm looked at him in surprise, and then joined in. "Yeah. A bit of a giveaway, I suppose," he admitted. He finished off the examination. "All done," he said, standing back and switching off the scanner.

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

Malcolm gave a rueful grin. "It's the least I can do." He tidied up the medical items and chucked the wrappings and old dressing into a waste disposal unit.

Gomez watched him and ventured, "A bad dream, huh?"

Malcolm nodded as he stowed the med kit. "Yes. It happens from time to time."

"How are you feeling?"

"Not too bad. Drained and not very sleepy." Malcolm shot him a reassuring grin, disguising his shaky state. He could still detect the after-effects of adrenaline rippling through his body. He rubbed his face vigorously with both hands then ran them through his damp hair. He felt like he'd run a marathon and fought a full-scale battle at the end of it. Exactly how long had he been 'disturbing' the others?

Gomez slumped back in his chair. Malcolm chose the least lumpy of the remaining ones and collapsed into it, grunting again as his ribs protested.

Gomez eyed him, and then said, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Malcolm shook his head. "Won't help. You don't want to know how many people have talked me through this. It doesn't make much difference. I'm told the dreams will subside with time."

"I wonder what triggered it."

"Who knows what the subconscious gets up to to amuse itself? It was probably due to that phenomenon we encountered."

"The energy cloud I thought about going into? That worried you?"

Malcolm gave Gomez a sharp look. "I don't know how serious you were about going in there, but believe me, that is not the sort of thing you should even consider. You have no idea what could happen."

"And you have, I suppose?" said Gomez, testily. "I've been around the block a few times. I have a pretty good understanding of what is out there."

Malcolm stared at him, ready to argue, but decided to let it go. He contented himself with a nod and left it at that.

Gomez said, "I can see I can't convince you. Let's agree to disagree. Wait there a moment." He levered himself to his feet and padded off down the corridor, returning a few moments later with two glasses and a bottle. "Scotch. Want a dram?"

Malcolm wavered.

"Single malt. Twelve years old." Gomez poured one, took Malcolm's silence for a 'yes', and poured a second.

Malcolm eased back, sipping the fine whisky. "It's good," he said. He hadn't had a decent scotch since he last saw his father. Exhausted but far from sleepy, Malcolm took another sip as he wondered what his dad would be up to now. It would be afternoon at his parents' place in Malaysia. He would probably be having an afternoon siesta, and his mum would no doubt be reading gardening magazines...

Gomez broke his train of thought. "I wouldn't tell too many people about your time in Starfleet, if I were you. Some friendly advice."

Malcolm bristled. He hadn't been the one to bring it up, had he? "Why not?" he said, quietly, staring at the spirit in his glass.

Gomez shrugged. "They're an independent bunch, the miners. They don't take kindly to being pushed around. Starfleet has no jurisdiction here, but you wouldn't know it, the way they behave. Not that we see much of them." He paused. "Some have more... personal reasons."

"Who? And why?"

"Like I said, personal reasons. They'll tell you, if they want to." Gomez cradled his glass, then added, "Bailey is one. I wouldn't normally say anything, but if there's a possibility we might be working together, you should probably know. To keep the peace, such as it is." He smiled thinly.

Malcolm digested this information.

Gomez said, "Bailey isn't a fool, you know."

"No?" Malcolm raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"No. He's not." Gomez didn't elaborate but Malcolm didn't really care.

They sat quietly, then Gomez said, "How's your presentation coming along? Ready to show me how to make millions?"

"Hah! I didn't promise millions, did I? But I think you will be pleased with it. I'll have it finished soon."

"Is this expertise part of your Starfleet legacy, then, Reed?"

Malcolm gave what he hoped was an enigmatic smile, but didn't answer. He took another sip of whisky, savouring the spread of flavours. He lifted his glass to Gomez. "This is very generous of you," he said, deflecting any potential discussion of his past. It was indeed a generous gesture. The cost of shipping this all the way from Earth would be considerable.

Gomez said, with a shrug, "I thought you'd be the sort of man to appreciate a fine spirit. Most people I come across these days are only interested in the percentage of alcohol. Make the most of it, though. I don't suppose I will be overwhelmed with generosity again soon."

Malcolm gave a grin. "Understood."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Malcolm's thoughts drifting to a holiday he'd spent, touring the distilleries of the glens. He'd been so young then, no worries to speak of... Well, apart from the basic disagreement with his father, but that had been a steady feature of his life for so long, he didn't know how he would feel if it disappeared.

Malcolm took another small sip, not wanting to rush the pleasure. That had been difficult… informing his father he had decided to leave Starfleet. He had expected his dad to be triumphant, but instead, he had been shocked and disappointed. Malcolm had avoided thinking too much about his last meeting with him. That had always been his tactic where his father was concerned: push it under the carpet and let it fester.

Disappointed. His dad hadn't said as much. He'd uncharacteristically kept his opinions on Malcolm's behaviour to himself, but Malcolm knew what he was thinking: Malcolm had let the family down by entering Starfleet, second-best compared to the Royal Navy, and he hadn't even been able to make a go of that. His dad had actually been proud of Malcolm when he first returned after the mission to the Expanse. The media had hyped up their achievement; the crew was hailed as the saviours of humanity.

Tough! He was an adult now, and quite capable of running his life as he saw fit. He knew he had made the right choice, even if he couldn't tell his father why he was doing what he was.

Gomez coughed, jerking Malcolm back to the present.

"I'm going to get some sleep," said Gomez, unfolding his long frame and standing up. He lifted the bottle. "Top up?"

"Oh, no, really," answered Malcolm, not wanting to further impose on Gomez' magnanimity.

"I thought you liked this."

"Well, yes, I do. It's excellent, but-"

"No 'buts' about it. Anyway, if it helps you relax, I might be able to get some shut-eye without being wakened by the hounds of hell!"

Malcolm flushed. "I'm sorry," he muttered, embarrassed again by the reminder.

"It's okay. We've all got our demons." Gomez poured another measure for Malcolm, and left with a lazy wave.

* * *

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: see Chapter 1

A/N: Grateful thanks to my reviewers! I wasn't sure if this story would appeal, and I'm pleased to learnthat - so far, anyway - it is of interest to some people. Thanks for the reassurance! There is still a long way to go.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

With his kitbag swung over a shoulder and a plan of the layout as his guide, Malcolm steered a course through the confusing maze of corridors towards the main Admin Office, located near the centre of the accommodation section.

The Facility was sturdily built but would win no prizes for aesthetics. The same neglect that Carlotta had shown was exhibited here, too. Malcolm grimaced as he took it all in. The dingy cream-painted walls, relieved by the usual bright safety notices and warning signs, had bare patches with signs of corrosion showing through. It was only superficial but spoke volumes for attitude. Exposed pipework ran along the upper walls and was suspended from the ceilings, with the occasional dangling cable or taped-up connection showing where ad hoc repairs had been carried out and then left to become permanent.

Malcolm made a final switchback turn which took him up half a level and reached the Admin Office. Since the door was open, he stepped in over the raised doorframe, giving a sharp rap on the wall to announce his arrival.

The small office was full of equipment and furniture, with banks of monitors taking up most of the walls. A slew of terminals ranged over a central desk in an arc - the heart of power - behind which sat a man in a grey coverall. He was bowed over a PADD, his sandy hair falling down over his face, and showed no sign of having heard Malcolm's knock.

"Hello?" said Malcolm.

The man grunted a response of sorts, but didn't look up or stop keying into the PADD.

Not wishing to disturb him, Malcolm dropped his bag on the floor and walked over to idly inspect a set of displays. They turned out to be concerned with life support and air recycling functions. Everything appeared to be well within the green range. Comforting, thought Malcolm, taking note of the different listed sections. He scrutinized what else he could without encroaching too much on the admin official, who was still engrossed in his task, and then pulled out a chair and sat down.

The man eventually put aside his PADD. He had a rumpled appearance and hadn't shaved that day, by the looks of it. Malcolm wondered if he'd just come on shift.

"Malcolm Reed," said Malcolm cheerily, impatient to get on with things.

"I guessed it was," said the man, unsmiling. "We don't get much in the way of casual visitors here."

"I guess not," said Malcolm, feeling rather stupid.

"The name's Young," said the man, pushing back his hair. He didn't offer to shake hands. "You travelled in on the Carlotta."

"Yes. That's right," confirmed Malcolm.

Young scowled at him. "The inertial dampers are shot. That little stunt you pulled caused a lot of damage."

"It was necessary, otherwise the entire ship would've been lost," Malcolm replied firmly, folding his arms to emphasise the point. So - Gomez or Bailey had already spoken to Young, had they? Had they also kept their promise to get him off the hook?

Young fixed Malcolm with a bleary gaze for a long moment while Malcolm stared confidently back. Then Young sniffed, breaking the spell. "Yeah, well, Gomez and Bailey say the same. But next time, remember: you get to pay."

Malcolm gave a non-committal grunt, not allowing his immense relief to show. That was the first hurdle overcome! Now that particular worry was out of the way, he could proceed as planned. He got down to business before Young could change his mind. "I've got some cargo to unload."

"Uh huh. We got your credit transfer. I need you to go through the account to confirm deductions, then I'll show you your quarters and the rest."

"Okay," said Malcolm, settling back in his chair.

Young consulted his terminal. "You'll need to go over the safety regs - I'll ask you some questions on them tomorrow. You'll also need to do competency tests for EV activities and explosives. I assume you do need to be cleared for explosives?"

Malcolm hesitated. His Starfleet ratings would be more than adequate to enable him to skip the Facility tests, but he was mindful of Gomez' advice about how Starfleet was viewed by the miners.

Young misunderstood his indecision. "I don't know what you've heard, but we do have some rules here, you know. We don't care what you do to yourself, but we don't like it if you kill anyone else. I'll put you down to do the competencies tomorrow. Okay?"

"Okay," agreed Malcolm.

"Good," said Young, tapping in an entry. "Shamir will take you through them." He pointed to a monitor next to Malcolm's elbow. "Use that to access your account. Check it and confirm with your authorisation code."

The figures were wrong, thought Malcolm, as he scanned through them to the final tally. There should be more than that left in his account. He tabbed back to the top and concentrated on the individual items. Room rent, workspace, cargo space... atmosphere and life support. They charged separately for that! What was the point of renting a room if it didn't come with air? He shook his head and gave a grunt.

"Problem?" said Young.

"You quoted me a price for rent. Now I see you've bumped it up with additional services charges."

"That's how it's done. It was all quite clear in the documentation."

Malcolm pulled a face. He bet it was. Tucked away somewhere obscure, no doubt. Now he understood why the paperwork had been so difficult to navigate. He followed down the list. Everything and anything had its own entry. They even charged extra for docking facilities and he didn't have a vessel!

He challenged the item.

Young said, "You'll be coming and going, won't you? It's all wear and tear."

"But you've already got an item for general depreciation. That would include it!"

"No, it doesn't," said Young. "It's all in the definitions in Schedule 2. Read it."

Malcolm shook his head again.

Before he could argue the point, Young said, "The thing is, you either accept our way of doing things, or you go somewhere more to your liking. I don't care which."

Malcolm gazed pensively at him and decided he would make no headway, except to find himself at odds with the Facility management. He didn't want to start off like that. "Okay," he said, admitting defeat.

He swiftly checked through everything else, grimly amused to see the competency testing fees tacked onto the end. "I'll authorise it - all of it," said Malcolm, keying in his codes. It would leave him with less than he had budgeted for, but, with Gomez agreeing to his deal, he hoped to pick up paying business soon. He would have to. He couldn't allow himself to eat into his emergency reserve. That was solely to cover transport back to Earth if he wanted to ship out of here.

Young stood. "Come on. I'll show you your quarters."

As he spoke, raised voices could be heard outside, coming closer.

"That's the rules!" exclaimed a woman. "You know that!"

"Bullshit!" came the uncompromising reply. "We know you can bend them if you want. It's not like it's impossible."

"But it is..."

The two antagonists entered the Admin office, the woman dressed like Young in a grey coverall and the man wearing decidedly work-worn casual clothing.

The man was furious. He stabbed a finger in the woman's direction and shouted, "Elmira says she won't accept my ore!"

Young said calmly, "Well, she's right. You're too late."

"Too late! It's only thirty minutes past. What harm will it do, huh?"

"A deadline is a deadline, otherwise it puts all the scheduling out."

"If I have to wait for the next collection, it's going to tie up my racking and I won't get my money this session."

Young raised an eyebrow. "We can extend the credit line."

The angry miner slammed both hands on Young's desk. "Don't! That is not a joking matter!"

"Who said I was joking?"

Malcolm was watching this show with detached interest, until the miner turned to him and spat out, "You're new around here, huh? Don't let these thieving bloodsuckers get their claws into you or you'll never be free of them." He gave a final slam on the desk and stalked out.

Young and Elmira grinned at each other. "Another satisfied customer," said Elmira slyly.

"Come on, Reed," said Young. "You've paid for the amenities. Might as well get to see 'em!" He gave a short laugh and set off down the corridor.

Malcolm grabbed his kitbag and followed, thinking about the rigid application of the deadline he'd just witnessed. It puzzled him. That didn't gel with what his investigations had thrown up about this place. "So, you're a stickler for the rules, eh?" he probed.

"Always," said Young.

"I thought this Facility was supposed to be unregulated?"

"It is. It doesn't fall within Mining Guild Guidelines, but that doesn't mean we haven't got our own rules."

"I'll try to remember that," said Malcolm dryly. He had no illusions who those rules would be set to favour.

His quarters were in the outer sector of the accommodation section and consisted of a single room, smaller than the one he'd had on Enterprise, with a bunk, closet, small desk and terminal. The communal wash facilities were down the corridor.

"Sure you don't want the next grade up?" asked Young. "They've got individual bathrooms."

"Quite sure, thank you," said Malcolm. He'd had to share bathrooms for most of his life - at school and as a cadet - and it didn't bother him overmuch, certainly not when they charged so much here for the privilege.

Malcolm dumped his gear, and then went with Young to inspect the workroom that he had been allocated. That was much more satisfying, with plenty of space for his day-to-day work and the research he intended to do in his spare time. The tour ended with a trip to the cargo bays. All Malcolm's freight had been safely offloaded and stored where it was accessible.

"I'll leave you to settle in," said Young, as they arrived back at Malcolm's quarters. "Shamir will get you tomorrow for the tests."

"Right," said Malcolm. He saw Young out, then locked his door, kicked off his boots and lay down on his bunk. He had been travelling for so long and now wanted nothing more than some hours of uninterrupted sleep in a place that was his alone. He didn't even have the energy to get cleaned up - just lay back on top of the covers. He would unpack later. Within moments, his eyes closed and he drifted off.

----------------------

Malcolm woke up suddenly, senses on full alert. It took a moment for him to recall where he was, then he lay back down again with a sigh.

A deep thunk resonated through the Facility structure, followed by a powerful shudder. Then another similar sequence. Evidently, that was what had roused him. Malcolm had no idea what it was. Was there a problem? He jumped up, stumbling over his discarded boots, and checked his terminal, all the while listening out for sirens or alarms. The station network showed no warning message and there were no noises of an evacuation drill being put into action - no running feet or emergency signal. The status of the Facility was designated 'normal' on the comm network and, whatever the disturbances were due to, they seemed to have subsided. Malcolm decided he could safely relax.

That was one way to get a wake-up call! Malcolm yawned and poked his finger around the corners of his eyes to winkle out the sleep. Yanking his kitbag onto the bunk, he tipped out the contents and grabbed his wash kit. It was time to try out the facilities.

They were a few metres down the corridor and were deserted. Malcolm had a shower, noting that he had had to enter his charge code to operate it. More expense! This place didn't miss a trick. He was determined he was going to beat their game.

He returned to his room and changed into fresh clothes, feeling a lot more human. Now his stomach rumbled, reminding him it was time to refuel. He drew a comb through his hair, pulled on his boots and set off to the mess hall.

There was a sole diner - the man who'd had the argument with the Admin people earlier, still in his dirty clothes. Malcolm walked over to the serving hatch and rang the bell.

"Yes?" said the chef, stepping over and wiping his hands on a cloth.

"What have you got?" asked Malcolm, craning his head in an attempt to see what might be on offer.

"Try me!"

"Okay, how about steak, veg, pudding of some sort."

"No problem. Coffee?"

"Please." Malcolm keyed in his charge code.

"I'll bring it over when it's ready," promised the chef.

Malcolm turned and started automatically for a table in the far corner. Then he hesitated. It went against his nature, but he had to learn how to get business. He altered direction and sauntered over to the other man, who was concentrating entirely on his food.

"Excuse me," said Malcolm.

The man looked up briefly, then back at his plate, aiming for a potato with his fork. "Yeah?"

"Do you mind if I sit here?" Malcolm nodded at the place opposite him.

"Suit yourself," said the man dismissively, although it was accompanied by a pointed look at the empty places all around.

"The name's Reed," said Malcolm with forced brightness.

"Johansson," replied the man.

"Pleased to meet you."

Johansson grunted, his attention once more on his meal.

Malcolm gave a taut smile and tried again to get a conversation going. "Thanks for your warning, about the charging regime here."

"What?"

"In the Admin Office."

Johansson said, "Oh, yeah. Like I said, watch out for them. Don't trust them an inch."

"I'll be careful."

Johansson took a gulp of coffee and raised his head to consider Malcolm. "You just arrived?"

"Yeah."

Johansson nodded but remained silent, putting another block on any discussion as he returned to the serious business of eating. It was very obvious that he didn't want to talk.

Malcolm chewed nervously at his lower lip as he sought a way to bring up his proposition. What was the best opening gambit? The chef brought over a jug of coffee and a mug, and Malcolm occupied himself in pouring a drink. Then he fiddled with his mug, rotating it in short steps. This was ridiculous! He had to say something otherwise Johansson would leave and be none the wiser!

Malcolm cleared his throat. "Do you do your own blasting?"

"What's it to you?" replied Johansson, quite aggressively.

"Well... I'm a freelance - explosives that is. I'm able to take on new work at the moment. I'm confident that I can increase your profitability if I carry out your blasting."

"Listen, I don't know if you were paying attention earlier, but I don't have the funds to employ anyone right now. Sorry." Johansson seized his mug and took another noisy gulp.

"You would pay me out of your increased profits. You would make more, even with my fees."

Johansson said nothing, but his face showed disbelief as he regarded Malcolm over the rim of his mug. However, he did not dismiss it out of hand, which Malcolm took as a good sign.

Sensing a break in Johansson's defences, Malcolm said quickly, "I can prove it to you. I've got some work lined up with Gomez. I'll cost everything up and show you the figures based on what that project demonstrates."

Johansson shook his head doubtfully, but he was definitely weakening.

"All I ask is that you consider it. There'd be nothing to lose and lots to gain!" Malcolm grinned at his potential client. He wondered if it looked as false as it felt.

Johansson narrowed his eyes, and then made a decision. "Okay. As you say, I've nothing to lose. Feel free to contact me when you're ready."

"Great!" Malcolm's enthusiasm was amplified by relief. Perhaps this initiative of his would work, after all? Perhaps he really would be able to make a living at it? He just needed a successful demo with Gomez and then he could build on it.

Johansson accepted a top-up of his coffee while Malcolm congratulated himself on a second promising contact.

----------------------

Malcolm made one last pass over the firing field. He had been meticulous in setting his charges. With the luxury of as much time as he wanted, he was not going to rush this. It was going to be perfect. Checking off the last charge, he waved Bailey and Gomez back. They would keep creeping forward. Absolutely no discipline.

He pressed his EV suit's comm button. "I'm almost ready. Get back to the safety zone."

_"But we're fine here, Reed,"_ argued Bailey, his voice sounding clearly in Malcolm's left ear. Malcolm lowered the volume a notch.

Malcolm shook his head, although the others wouldn't be able to see it. "I won't fire until you get back. If you want to waste oxygen, that's fine by me, but it'll put the costs up. And you're paying for consumables remember!"

Gomez cut in, partway through a laugh. _"Consumables? I thought you meant explosives!"_

Malcolm retorted, "I've been taking lessons from Facility Admin. You consume it, you pay for it!"

Gomez snorted in amusement and said, _"Come on, Mot. Let's keep costs down."_

They leapt in kangaroo jumps to the designated area. Malcolm caught them up easily. His new EV suit was proving to be much more manoeuvrable than the solid but old fashioned Starfleet model. He held his hand up, watching the thin, silvered material flex with his fingers. It had been expensive, the top of the line model, but he didn't regret its purchase.

He waited while his companions settled themselves, then pulled out his initiator. He re-checked the firing sequence.

_"Are you sure this will work?" _said Bailey.

"I guarantee it," said Malcolm, brimming with confidence. "If there's one thing I know about, it's explosives."

_"Arrogant bastard,"_ said Gomez, but with good humour.

Malcolm grinned to himself, recognising the truth in at least part of that remark, but unfortunately he resembled his father far too closely for it to be entirely true. He took one last look, then ducked down behind the shielding rock.

"Firing," he said, depressing the buttons in the start sequence.

Nothing happened at first, and then the ground beneath their boots rumbled and shuddered. A low boom reached them through the thin atmosphere, followed by a light rain of fine particles and dust.

Malcolm activated the ultrasonic cleaner to clear his visor and was first to peer around the rock. He gave a huge grin. How could he have ever forgotten exactly how good an explosion was for the soul!

It was exactly as he had envisaged it. A massive slice of ore-bearing rock cleanly excised from the surrounding rock layers, contoured for maximum yield. There couldn't have been a better demonstration. The high value ore was laid bare. All they had to do now was break it up into smaller chunks that would then be towed to the collection point. All that usual tedious drilling and cutting avoided.

Gomez gave him a thump on his back. _"That's amazing,"_ he said. _"Can you do that every time?"_

"Pretty much so, although it depends on the starting material, of course."

_"Good work,"_ said Bailey, grudgingly. He turned to Malcolm and grinned, clapping a hand on Malcolm's shoulder to emphasise the praise.

Malcolm looked once more at the results. A perfect blast, and a good omen for things to come… or so he hoped.

----------------------

The last rocks had been retrieved and were being scooted out to Delta 3, as they designated their holding point. These were the products of the final set of blastings. The whole series had gone better than Malcolm could have hoped, although he had stacked the odds in his favour by not shirking on any of the analysis required. Only a couple of firings had been less successful, but they had been still acceptable.

Malcolm had helped with the labouring work, clumsily to begin with, but gradually increasing in confidence as he got used to the heavy equipment and the masses involved. By the end of the two weeks, he was quite capable of handling the more straightforward manoeuvres, although he still deferred to the other two when more precision was necessary.

Hanging above the pockmarked asteroid surface, Malcolm waited patiently for Bailey to send the next load of ore in his direction. There was a lot of waiting around involved in mining, Malcolm had discovered. The sturdy frame around him was quiescent, arms and grappling lines tidily retracted until required. Occasionally, a small shudder travelled through the frame as the thrusters fired to make a positional correction.

Malcolm automatically checked his suit parameters. Everything okay. He turned his head to gaze out towards the stars, at now familiar constellations. He had been worried that he would soon grow impatient with the pace, but the firings had kept his brain challenged and the work of retrieving the ore had given him a physical workout, even with the equipment they used. And, in between, he had time to look at the stars and think. There were no demands on him to be always alert for threats, to be responsible for the safety of others and the ship. Until now, he really hadn't appreciated exactly how much pressure that had put him under.

He was content, he realised with surprise. When had he last been able to say that? He didn't know. There were other pressures, sure. He had to get to grips with financial matters - Admin's attitude made that a steep learning curve - and building the contacts didn't come easily to him, but it was a different type of pressure. Not life threatening. And no one could order him to do anything.

Bailey came over the comm. _"Last load, Reed."_

"Acknowledged," said Malcolm, thumbing the switches to bring the equipment on line, the panel array brightly flaring. He placed his hands on the levers and experimentally flexed the frame's arms to confirm its correct functioning. A touch of his thumbs brought both grappling lines on alert. The display, appearing to hover before his face, showed the trajectories of the ore as the pieces spun lazily in his direction. He set the autopilot to tracking mode and returned his concentration to his work.

----------------------

Gomez called a break period before the ore was to be gathered up from the collection points by the ship - the last part of the procedure. "No sense in killing ourselves," he commented to Malcolm as they thankfully stripped off their EV suits on board the Mariposa. "We'll grab some food and a couple of hours sleep, then carry on with the campaign."

Malcolm approved: Gomez was safe, on the whole. He had already heard scary tales about miners pushing too hard, mistakes being made and people dying or being maimed. Malcolm had determined he wouldn't be a part of that. He relished that he was a freelance, and that he could do what he damn well chose.

They sat wearily down in the galley and devoured their rations in silence. Malcolm chewed methodically, barely registering what he was eating.

Gomez set his fork down, pushed his clean plate away and sat back. "We'll be back early. Admin will think we've not bothered to get a full load."

"I told you having a proper blasting programme would make a difference," said Malcolm, shovelling in the last of his meal. "You will let me use the results?"

Gomez said, "Of course. That's what we agreed." He paused and then said, "I have a proposition. Why not work for me full time? You won't need to scare up work from elsewhere, then. It'd be guaranteed."

Malcolm shook his head immediately. "No. Sorry." Now he had his independence, he wasn't inclined to abandon it so readily.

Gomez nodded slowly. "Okay then. I'll make you a partner. That'll give you a say in the decision-making. And a straight cut of the profits."

Malcolm blinked in surprise. That was a generous offer and totally unanticipated. He sneaked a look at Bailey, who seemed unconcerned by the conversation. Of course - Gomez would have spoken to him first. Malcolm didn't know what business arrangement Gomez and Bailey had. Perhaps they were partners, although he had gathered that the Mariposa belonged to Gomez.

"Well?" prompted Gomez.

Malcolm considered the proposal. It would mean mining practically continuously. Out on campaign, rapid turnaround back at the Facility and then back out again. There would be some holiday time and unavoidable breaks, such as when the ship needed servicing or repair, but it was a pretty relentless routine.

That wasn't what he wanted. It would probably be inescapable to begin with, until he got his finances in improved heart, but then he wanted time to himself. He had research he wanted to carry out. Also, although he found Gomez easy to work with, and Bailey as well, surprisingly, he wanted to make contacts with the others. He didn't want to put all his eggs in one basket.

"Thank you for the offer," said Malcolm, "but I think I'll stick with my original plan. No offence."

Gomez lifted an eyebrow. "As you wish. No offence taken." He and Bailey exchanged glances.

Bailey had finished eating, too. He said curiously, "Where did you learn to handle explosives like that, Reed?"

Malcolm considered what he should say. "Here and there," he settled on and then added mischievously, "and a certain affinity." He gave a broad smile.

Bailey took the hint and left it at that.

The meal over, the men went to their cabins for some much-needed rest. Malcolm splashed some water over his face then lay down on the bunk, quickly falling into a satisfied and dreamless sleep.

* * *

TBC 


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: see Chapter 1.

A/N: Thank you to those who have been able to review. Tata: Sorry - I'm only revealing what I put in my note for Chapter 1, but there _is_ still a long way to go. :-)

* * *

**Chapter 5**

It was a mistake, realised Malcolm in dismay, to come to the mess hall at this time. He hesitated at the threshold, surveying the noisy, seething mass of men and women. The room was packed. Most, if not all, seats were taken and knots of people stood about, balancing plates or lifting glasses. Everywhere, there were discussions, conducted at top volume, on such topics as ore prices, equipment problems or the latest iniquities inflicted by Admin. Malcolm kicked himself. Why hadn't he thought to get here earlier? He knew from experience it would have been so much less busy. That analysis he was working on could have waited.

The sudden influx of miners at the Facility was due to the imminent prospect of two bulk cargo vessels. Their timetable was not exact but they would be here within the next 48 hours. There were also rumours of a third vessel - possibly a trader. Accordingly, if at all possible, the miners had organised their campaigns so they would be on the Facility at this time. They wanted to take a direct part in the negotiations for the ore they had brought in. In the event, many were likely to be disappointed. Admin often managed to purchase the rights in the ore beforehand and get a mark up when it was sold on.

Malcolm stood in indecision, wondering gloomily if ration bars might prove a better alternative.

"Reed! Here!"

Malcolm turned to the familiar voice and caught a glimpse through the throng of Bailey and Gomez, snugly holed up in a corner. Bailey was making exaggerated hand signals at the empty place opposite him.

Malcolm snagged a passing kitchen assistant, gave his order, and then pushed his way over to the two men. "I forgot what it'd be like," he panted, dropping into the free seat. "I should know better by now."

"Uh huh," agreed Bailey. He shoved an empty plate away and rested his elbows on the table. "So, how d'you get on with old Ashton, then?" He gave an annoying snigger, winking at Gomez, who allowed only a hint of amusement to cross his face.

Malcolm scowled at Bailey. "How do you think?" he said caustically. "You could have warned me!"

"We learn better through making mistakes," said Bailey, with a laugh.

Malcolm replied sarcastically, "Ah, yes. Indeed? I'll remember that next time you insist on standing too close to an explosive charge!"

Bailey gave a hoot at receiving the response he had hoped for, slapping a hand on the tabletop.

Gomez looked on tolerantly at the exchange. He said mildly, "I thought you'd know his reputation by now, Reed. We didn't know you were working for him, otherwise we would have warned you." He looked significantly at Bailey. "Wouldn't we?"

Bailey grinned and gave a noncommittal shrug.

Malcolm tskked to himself in irritation. Ashton had been a complete trial from start to finish. His absent-mindedness had meant they were missing significant pieces of equipment, so what should have been easy turned out to be bloody hard work. Slave labour, thought Malcolm crossly. Ashton had also neglected to replenish stores, so they had had little decent food, running out all together at the end. To top it all, he had rambled on incessantly. The first time he had asked Malcolm about his family, Malcolm had replied civilly enough, but when he asked exactly the same questions for the sixth or seventh time, Malcolm had erupted. It hadn't frightened Ashton though. He still wittered on.

"Will you go out with him again?" said Bailey.

"Only if he pays me three times as much," growled Malcolm.

"Did you stay on board for docking?" asked Gomez, with genuine interest.

Malcolm gave a quick half-smile. "Ah - no. That was one thing I do know about. I cadged a lift on Carlotta. They were most sympathetic!"

Gomez said, "They knew they might be in the same predicament themselves some day." They all chuckled at the truth in that comment.

Gomez nodded at Malcolm. "What about us? All set for tomorrow? Did you get the prelim scan results I sent over?"

"Yes. Everything's ready. I need to..."

A loud, unsteady cheer from the far side of the room drowned Malcolm's words. It wasn't that far into the night, but there had been some hard drinking going on already by the sound of it.

"Great," muttered Malcolm. "I hope I get my dinner before all mayhem breaks out!"

"Hhmm. I wouldn't count on it," said Gomez thoughtfully, casting a calculating eye over the mob. "I think tonight it's going to be early. I'll be making a move soon."

"We finished eating ages ago," said Bailey smugly. "You should have been here an hour ago."

"I was working on something and got carried away," said Malcolm, half-standing to look over the heads of nearby diners to the kitchen. "Perhaps I'll cancel my order. Oh damn. Too late. Here it comes."

The assistant reached Malcolm and almost dropped the plates and glass on the table as he was jostled from behind. "Sorry," he apologised, wiping up some of the spillage.

"It doesn't matter," said Malcolm, trying to ignore the sauce on his trousers. He picked up his knife and fork and set to with determination. Bailey asked for another beer, finishing up the glass he had. The harassed assistant gave a quick nod and bustled off, expertly deploying his elbows to give himself some room.

Through a general lull in the chaotic noise, a penetrating voice came from an adjacent table. "I blame the aliens."

"Which ones?"

"All of them! Does it matter!" The words were slurred but emphatic.

"Kill 'em all, I say!"

Malcolm glanced over to the group. "Ignorant bastards," he said, with a shake of his head.

"They have a point," answered Bailey, reaching to take his fresh beer from the kitchen assistant.

"No they don't," said Malcolm evenly, still eating.

Bailey grunted but didn't press it.

"I'm going," said Gomez. "See you both tomorrow." He slipped out of his seat and disappeared into the mêlée.

Malcolm glanced across at Bailey. "Staying?"

"I'll keep you company." Bailey tipped his glass and took a long draught.

"Okay. It's up to you." It didn't matter one way or the other to Malcolm. If Bailey wanted to risk trouble, it was no business of his.

Malcolm ploughed through his meal, trying to ignore the anti-alien sentiments spewing out around him. Then he heard, "Ever seen those stupid Andor'eans? Baby blue and with cute little antennas!" The attitude of the speaker was contemptuous.

"Heehee. Yeah, I'd like to get hold of those antennas and pull 'em right off!"

Malcolm ceased eating, frozen by the words. He put his utensils down with deliberation. Bailey said warningly, "Reed..."

Malcolm glared at him. "What?"

"Don't get involved. They're drunk. It won't do any good." Bailey was now pretty far gone himself, judging by his bright pink face and sincere glazed stare. He leant towards Malcolm and placed a meaty hand on his arm.

Malcolm reared back as the sour beery breath hit him and pushed Bailey's hand away. "Any Andorian... that's Andorian not Andor'ean... would-"

Bailey interrupted. "What? What did you say?"

"I said," repeated Malcolm loudly, "any Andorian would be more than a match for any ten of those drunkards... more than ten."

"Noooo," said Bailey shaking his head. "That's not right."

"It is. What's more, if it wasn't for the Andorians, Earth wouldn't exist any more. So put that in your pipe and smoke it!" Malcolm had barely started his beer but he was finding the aggressive air around him infectious.

"I heard that!" shouted the miner from the next table. He leapt to his feet and stumbled across, towering over Malcolm and Bailey. "That's not true! Filthy little blues. And I'll prove it!"

This statement led to a roar of approval from the surrounding miners, who gathered closer in anticipation of some excitement.

Malcolm stared up at the man. It was Johansson. Now the sensible thing to do, of course, would be to soothe him down, offer to buy a drink, perhaps, and then leave before the place erupted. But Malcolm wasn't feeling sensible. He had had enough of that. Perhaps his nightmare trip with Ashton had something to do with his need for a confrontation. Or his exasperation at the lack of recognition of Shran's help.

Slowly, Malcolm stood up, never taking his eyes off Johansson, who stood a good head and a half taller than him.

Johansson said, "I'm going to find an Andor'ean, get hold of its antennas and twist 'em off." He glowered at Malcolm and swayed a little.

Malcolm gave a humourless half-smile. "I rather think the Andorian will be twisting off parts of your anatomy."

Johansson let out an ear-splitting howl and lunged forward, swinging a fist at Malcolm. Malcolm easily avoided the ponderous assault by the simple expedient of leaning back. Johansson's momentum carried him around and he ended up crashing down onto the table, scattering plates and glasses.

Malcolm folded his arms and looked down his nose at the spread-eagled man. "Yes," he commented in cut-glass tones. "That rather proves my point, I think."

A noise from behind alerted Malcolm to another attack. He spun and dropped, and another fist missed him, connecting with the jaw of a captivated onlooker instead, who was knocked back into his neighbour, spilling beer over several people.

All hell broke loose. There were fists flying, boots kicking and anything not nailed down - including some of the miners - became a makeshift weapon. Malcolm, being sober, was at a huge advantage and, with his albeit-rusty security training, he had no problem in dodging or deflecting blows.

Thankfully, the ban on energy weapons on the Facility stopped the more greatly deranged from taking out everyone else, but a couple of the combatants pulled knives. Malcolm saw one such man whirling around in agitation, apparently too confused to choose a victim. Casting about, Malcolm spied a towel dropped by the kitchen assistant. Seizing it, he moved swiftly to the knife wielder. He flung the towel over the man's head and chopped at his hand. The man yelped, dropping his knife. Malcolm bent down quickly and grabbed it, stuffing it out of harm's way down the inside of his right boot. The disarmed man yelled muffled curses as he flung his arms around, blindly seeking revenge. Malcolm was happy to shut him up with a swift knee to his stomach, followed by a helping hand to drive the man floorwards.

Malcolm caught the gleam of a second blade. He pushed his way through a mass of heaving bodies, suffering some blows for his troubles, to get behind the person with the knife - a woman. He grabbed it out of her hand before she realised what was going on and expertly spun it high to the ceiling. It stuck fast, quivering and well out of anyone's reach.

Grinning smugly at his cleverness and the unobtainable knife, Malcolm's attention had strayed and he missed an attack from below. A hand grabbed his heel and yanked him off balance, bringing him crashing to the floor. Malcolm lashed out at his attacker, and then turned and pinned the man - who promptly fainted. Malcolm paused, nonplussed, deprived of meaningful victory. He sat up, sighed and placed the man in the recovery position.

The brawl was nearly over. A few grunts and blows could be heard, but they were less frequent.

Getting to his feet, Malcolm turned to leave, congratulating himself that he hadn't done too badly, all things considered, and replaying the action in his mind. Which is probably why he didn't see the chair leg coming his way. Or duck.

Johansson cracked the leg across Malcolm's face. Malcolm instinctively pulled back, but it just clipped him across the bridge of his nose.

That did it! Malcolm finally saw red and began to take the fight seriously. He crouched, ready to pounce, lightly poised on his toes, fists raised. Time to show how it should be done!

Johansson gazed stupidly at Malcolm and then at his chair leg, and then back at Malcolm. He couldn't work out why Malcolm was still on his feet. He stood leadenly as Malcolm sprung towards him, delivered a few well-aimed punches, then stood back to admire their effect. Johansson sank gracefully to his knees and continued downward into an insensible heap on the floor. He seemed almost peaceful, lying there. Malcolm shook his head, and placed Johansson in the recovery position, also.

Wiping a sleeve over his bloody face, Malcolm swung his gaze over the now mostly-still room. Bodies slumped against each other, under each other, staggered around each other… That was the end of it. The fracas was definitely finished. He wondered briefly if he should check everyone, but immediately dismissed the idea. These people were tough. This ritual happened almost every month, and mostly they seemed to survive. He wasn't their guardian.

He straightened himself up, realising guiltily that he had actually quite enjoyed himself.

As he stumbled off to his quarters, he tentatively explored with his fingers the damage to his nose. He had let his guard down. That was stupid today. It could be fatal another time. There was no denying it - he was out of practice. He made a resolution to resume full workouts.

----------------------

The next morning, Malcolm discovered he had acquired two beautiful black eyes. He gazed wryly at the comical figure in the mirror. Just lovely! Bailey would have a field day at his expense - but this time he probably deserved it. The saving grace was that his nose seemed to be in one piece. There was no reason to visit the infirmary, for which he gave thanks.

His equipment was already loaded on the Mariposa, so Malcolm only had to collect his personal things together, which didn't take long. He made for the airlock where Carlotta was docked, ducking his head each time he passed someone en route.

Carlotta was doing duty as a ferry because there were too many mining vessels for them all to dock with the Facility. There were already a couple of other passengers on board - both much worse for wear than Malcolm. Malcolm felt less embarrassed, but if he hadn't had this job with Gomez lined up, he would quite happily have stayed in his quarters until the evidence of his stupidity had faded. No chance of that, however.

The Mariposa was first on the list. With a gentle bump, Carlotta was brought alongside and the seal made. Waving his acknowledgement, Malcolm cycled through the airlock and stepped onto Gomez' ship. Perhaps he could keep out of the way of the others until the bruises weren't quite so purple? Not a very practicable plan, unfortunately. He'd just have to put up with it.

Hurrying along, head down, Malcolm made for his usual cabin to drop off his kitbag.

A booming voice called from behind him, "Reed!"

Typical! Bailey had tagged him within seconds of arrival.

Reluctantly, Malcolm halted. He lifted his head and, squaring his shoulders, turned about to face Bailey - ready to meet the inevitable not-so-wise crack. His battered eyes widened as he saw Bailey's matching pair of shiners. Bailey blinked and then roared with laughter, and, for once, Malcolm couldn't help but join in with him.

"What's the joke?" asked Gomez, appearing in a doorway with a reel of cable swinging loosely from one hand.

Bailey could only point in Malcolm's direction and utter incoherent noises.

Malcolm smiled broadly. "You appear to have a couple of pandas crewing for you this trip, Gomez."

"Pandas! That's a good one," chortled Bailey, wiping a tear from his eye.

Malcolm grinned at Bailey's uncritical appreciation of his weak joke and didn't even object to Bailey thumping him on the back.

Gomez cast a jaundiced eye over the two men. "So I see. You didn't get out in time, obviously."

Bailey shook his head. "No, and Reed, here, was the one who started it."

"No," protested Malcolm. "It was Johansson."

"He told Johansson that any Andorian would pull his goolies off," said Bailey with a giggle.

Malcolm winced. "Well, not in so many words."

"And then Johansson proved it!"

"He did rather, didn't he?" agreed Malcolm. "Ignorant bastard." He laughed.

Gomez didn't join in with the others' merriment. "So, you've alienated a client have you, Reed? That's not good business practice."

Bailey said, "I bet Johansson won't even remember."

"No. Well, let's hope not," said Malcolm, suddenly sobering. He had been reckless. What had got into him? Johansson had been a good source of income for him.

Taking in both men with his comments, Gomez said sharply, "What you do in your own time is up to you, but it better not affect your work on this ship." He turned on his heels and left, slapping the cable reel against his leg.

Malcolm fumed silently. He didn't have to contract to Gomez! There were plenty of others he could work for. Who did Gomez think he was! And what was with this assumption that he wouldn't be able to do his job properly?

Bailey clapped Malcolm on the back, but Malcolm angrily shrugged him off. Bailey said quietly in Malcolm's ear. "Don't mind him. He's annoyed because he missed out on all the fun." He gave a little punch in the air. "Pandas united!" he declared.

Malcolm looked at Bailey's purple-framed eyes. The sight was just too humorous to stay in a bad mood. He grinned. "Pandas united," he replied. He even returned an echo of Bailey's gesture.

"Y'know," said Bailey thoughtfully, standing back and appraising Malcolm, "I think at long last you have a nickname, Panda!"

"Oh no," said Malcolm backing away. "You must be joking! Calling me after some cute cuddly animal. No way!"

"Well, we need something..."

"_You_ need something!"

"And since none of my other suggestions were acceptable..."

"Neither's this!"

"Tough! It was your idea, anyway."

Malcolm stared at him in appalled dismay. This was terrible! And anything he said was merely liable to increase Bailey's resolve. He gave a little moan and turned on his heels to make for the refuge of his quarters, trailed by Bailey's words. "I'll fix us coffee, Panda!"

----------------------

"So, Panda. Got those readings yet?" asked Bailey.

Malcolm remained stubbornly silent, concentrating on his food.

Gomez said, "I sent them to your terminal… Panda." He winked at Bailey.

Malcolm glared at him, then pointedly dropped his head down.

Bailey said, "More coffee, Panda?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," exclaimed Malcolm, finally cracking. It had been a whole day now. "How long are you two going to keep this up for?"

"For as long as it takes, Panda," said Bailey reasonably, spreading his hands wide.

"It's not funny!"

"It isn't supposed to be," said Bailey. "But a person is incomplete without a nickname, don't you agree Red?"

"I guess so, Mot," said Gomez with a lazy smile and a shrug. "You know, Panda, Mot won't give in. He's kind of relentless like that."

"So I see," said Malcolm, through gritted teeth. "But I'm a stubborn git, too, when I want to be, and right now, I want to be! I'm not answering to it."

"You just did," crowed Bailey. "Face it, Panda. You can't win."

Malcolm glared at his two companions, knowing that his black eyes made him look ridiculous. "I can understand _Mot_ getting a bee in his bonnet about this, Gomez - or should I say, _Red -_ but I don't know what's got into you!"

Gomez laughed. "I'm kinda complicated like that!"

Malcolm blew his breath out in frustration. They had to make their own entertainment out here, but this was too puerile even for this situation.

Bailey said, "I don't understand the objection, Panda. It's not rude."

"It's 'cute'," said Gomez, his thin lips twitching. "Panda."

Malcolm scowled at him.

Bailey said thoughtfully, "Panda. It's got a ring about it. It's different." He grinned. "It's 'cute'!"

Malcolm erupted. "I'm an explosives man, _not_ a cute furry animal. I'm an ex-armoury officer, dammit!" He thumped his fist on the table, rattling the crockery. "I. Will. Not. Answer. To. Panda... Dammit! Got that!"

Gomez sat back, considering Malcolm. "Ex-armoury officer, huh?"

Malcolm nodded crossly, with his arms defiantly folded.

"Tell you what," said Bailey in a conciliatory tone. "Let's call you 'Pan'. How's that?"

Malcolm grimaced. That was only marginally better. "I don't know what's the matter with plain Reed," he grumbled.

Bailey said, "Well, plain Reed just won't do anymore. So it's Pan, or Panda - take your pick. Unless you want to go back to one of my earlier suggestions?"

Malcolm shuddered. "No thanks!" He closed his eyes. He knew he was going to regret it, but he couldn't bear the thought of days more of this. Weeks, probably. He opened his eyes again, and said in defeat, "Okay. You win. Pan it is. But don't expect me to like it."

His companions grinned broadly at Malcolm's capitulation. He sighed in exasperation. What had he done to deserve this?

----------------------

The Mariposa had been out of the Facility for three days and Malcolm had now done all he could with the data available to him. He would have to wait until they reached their final destination before finalising the firing scheme for the next job. Idly gazing out of the small port in the common area, he traced their course using stars and nebulas as waymarkers.

He would never let any of his clients know, but he had become quite adept at navigating without instrumentation. They all guarded their working sites so jealously. There was no way he was allowed anywhere near the navigation console. They would be quite horrified if he sat down and sketched out exactly where each mined in relation to his competitors.

He smiled. No, he had better keep quiet on that front, otherwise he would find his work melting away. He had his integrity but he couldn't expect these paranoid miners to rely on that.

Time for a workout, he thought, checking his chronometer. He was determined to get back in shape. He hadn't really let matters slip too much, but he wanted to get back to his best once more. It was difficult, though, without a suitable sparring partner. He was always limited depending on whose ship he was on. Even at the Facility there weren't that many permanent residents. There were a couple of the maintenance guys who might be interested. He would have to ask them next time he was back. Failing that, there was always the next mass brawl! He grinned at that absurd thought.

The cargo bay acted as an ideal makeshift gym. Malcolm changed into his sweats and made his way there, swinging his arms to loosen up. He began with some shadow boxing, gradually building into more demanding moves as he warmed up. It was an excellent way to disperse some aggression, as well. As he worked, he considered asking Gomez if he might set up a target range - there was enough room in the cargo bay and he could arrange matters so there would be no damage. If necessary he could use reduced power.

He heard one of his companions enter, and used it to trigger a roll and turn sequence, springing up ready for action. Bailey sniffed, determined to remain unimpressed.

"Come for a workout, Bailey?" asked Malcolm.

"I'm as fit as I need to be, thanks," said Bailey. "I'm checking the grappling lines. Don't mind me."

"Don't worry. I won't." Malcolm dropped down onto the floor for some push ups.

The grappling lines were housed on massive drums along the sides of the area. They had been checked when they were hauled in but it was always prudent to examine them again before they were next required. Most miners didn't bother but Gomez tended to be particular about such matters.

Bailey said, keeping his attention on the cables, "Pan... what you said about the Andorians saving Earth. You were just rattling Johansson's cage, weren't you?"

Malcolm slowed his movements. That was classified information, although why, he didn't know. It didn't make any sense to him. Nonetheless, he should have kept his big mouth shut. He threw Bailey a nervous glance. "I shouldn't have said anything at all. I got carried away. Try to forget about it, will you? Mot…?"

Bailey tugged at a fixing. "_'Mot'_ is it? You _do_ want to get on my good side!"

Malcolm pulled a face, which Bailey couldn't see. He finished his exercises and stood slowly. "Yes, well. It's not for general consumption."

"Have you ever met an Andorian?" Bailey had stopped his work and was now scrutinising Malcolm.

"Uh huh. Several as a matter of fact." Malcolm grabbed his towel and rubbed it over his face. He grinned at Bailey. "They are an interesting race. Very militaristic, even the females." One in particular came to mind. His smile broadened.

Bailey frowned in confusion. "I got the impression you were anti-alien."

"I don't know where you got that from. I judge each alien on their own merits."

"Even Xindi?"

"Yes. Even Xindi. Don't forget, they helped in the destruction of the weapon."

"The weapon they made."

"Did you follow what happened? Do you know why they constructed the weapon?"

Bailey made a negative face. "I heard what they _say_ happened. Doesn't mean we should believe them."

Malcolm couldn't understand this negativity. So many of the mining community thought this way. "Why don't you like aliens, Mot? Have you come across many?" Malcolm doubted that would be the case. Aliens did stop off occasionally at the Facility, but not often, and most miners spent their lives out on their ships.

Bailey's answer surprised him. He narrowed his eyes and glared at Malcolm. "Yeah. I've had more than enough of aliens. Grasping, cold-blooded, cruel. I've had more dealings with them than most people. Even more than you, perhaps, Pan."

Malcolm blinked at Bailey's depth of emotion. "What happened, Mot? Did you-"

He didn't finish.

A massive shock suddenly thundered through the hull, violently hurling the two men head over heels. The lighting went off-line, plunging them into blackness. Simultaneously, the insistent high keening of the depressurisation alarm sounded. They were losing atmosphere and, in seconds, they would be at vacuum!

* * *

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: see Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 6**

Malcolm lay sprawled on the deck, conscious of air rushing past his face. His breath came harshly in snatching gasps - a desperate struggle to capture the rapidly thinning atmosphere. Then his vacuum training kicked in and he emptied his lungs, feeling water bubbling on his tongue as the pressure plummeted.

He had to evacuate the bay quickly, before the bulkheads slammed down and he was trapped. Which direction to go in? He hardly knew which way was up in the disorientating blackness. Pressing his palms on the deck, he steadied himself and squinted into the dark, seeking something to guide him.

"Pan. You okay?" Bailey's voice came from nearby.

"Yeah. You?" forced Malcolm, expelling his last air.

"This way," came Bailey's urgent command, sounding now behind Malcolm.

Malcolm turned to the sound, fighting against the dreadful outrush. Then emergency lighting activated, running in a sequence to show the way to the exit. Malcolm staggered to his feet, trying to fix the direction in his mind. His vision was fading fast. The lights became mere blurs, growing dimmer by each instant.

"Come on," encouraged Bailey. "Hurry!"

Malcolm ran as best he could towards Bailey's position. A synthesised voice impassively counted down. Only fractions of seconds left before the cargo bay was abandoned to vacuum - and Malcolm with it. He rammed his feet onto the deck with all his force, driving urgently forward. Suddenly, he was jerked off his course as Bailey's arm wrapped about him. Malcolm was half-dragged, half-guided, to his right for a couple of steps and the two men stumbled together over the raised threshold of the small access door.

It was only just in time. They had scarcely cleared the threshold than emergency bulkheads crashed down into place to seal the cargo bay. A microsecond later and Malcolm would have been on the wrong side - caught in vacuum - or sliced in half.

Malcolm fell on his hands and knees, his heartbeat thumping loudly in his ears, with Bailey slumped down next to him on the floor. Both concentrated on drawing in deep shuddering breaths of precious air - the only thing that mattered right then.

The corridor lights flickered into weak existence as auxiliary power came on. Unable to speak, his lungs still burning, Malcolm nodded his thanks at Bailey. That had been an extremely close run thing.

Gomez' frantic voice issued from the nearest comm panel as internal communications were restored. _"... you okay? Repeat: report in. Is everything all right? Come on... Answer me."_

Bailey clambered to his feet and hung on the answer button. "Red. I'm okay. So's Pan. We got caught in the cargo bay but made it out before it was sealed."

_"Thank God!" _came Gomez' relieved response. _"Wait there. I'll be with you soon."_

Bailey lowered himself again to the ground. "I'm in no hurry to go anywhere just yet," he said, a little shakily.

Malcolm's eyes flickered over to Bailey. Without Bailey's intervention, he wouldn't have made it. It had been too close for comfort. He said sincerely, "Thank you, Mot. I don't think I would have got out without you."

Bailey clapped him on his shoulder in acknowledgement.

Closing his eyes, Malcolm added, "You nearly got caught because of me. You know, you really shouldn't have waited."

Bailey chuckled. "I'll throw you out of an airlock if that's what you want! Don't worry. I was listening to the countdown. There was time."

Malcolm shook his head gratefully, not inclined to argue, but he knew Bailey had risked his life to save him. Bailey knew it too. But if that's how he wanted to play it, Bailey had every right to call the shots.

Neither had moved by the time Gomez arrived. His face was taut with tension and paler than ever. "I thought I'd lost both of you." His normally aloof facade had been replaced by an expression of deep concern.

"What happened?" asked Malcolm, getting to his feet.

Gomez frowned. "I don't know. I think we struck debris, but there was nothing on sensors. I've cut the power to the engines." He sighed and said to Bailey, "We'll have to go outside to see what's happened. All the video links are cut."

"I'll come with you, too," volunteered Malcolm, earning an appreciative look from Gomez.

----------------------

The three men suited up and exited via the port on the opposite side of the ship to whatever had gone wrong. The part of the ship near the port showed no sign of any problems. When they rounded the other side, however, it was a different story.

_"My ship,"_ said Gomez weakly, stunned by the terrible twisted confusion that confronted them.

The Mariposa had suffered devastating damage. An entire section had been brutally torn off the hull, exposing a large volume of the ship to space. The impulse and thruster jets had gone. They had either disintegrated or were now off on some independent adventure of their own. And settled in the grappling nets was the culprit: a roughly cylindrical artificial construct, about ten metres in length and half that in diameter, with no obvious bow or stern.

They stomped carefully across the hull, anchored by their magnetic boots and each step an effort. The exposed edges of the hull were lethally jagged. It would be all too easy to tear a suit beyond repair.

_"We need to secure this thing, whatever it is,"_ said Gomez, peering through his visor at the object.

"Wouldn't it be easier to cut it free?" asked Malcolm. "Then we can make a jury rig to restore attitude control." He studied the artefact. One end was firmly wedged at an end of the cargo bay. If they jettisoned it, they could lay a temporary cover over at least part of the gashed opening and perhaps relocate a thruster assembly to this side of the ship.

Gomez shook his head, exaggerating the motion so it was clearly visible even though he was wearing a helmet_. "Oh no. We've suffered enough. Now it's time to profit!"_

"What do you mean?" asked Malcolm, not liking the sound of that.

_"We can make some cash from this. Salvage! There's no way I'm abandoning it. For one thing it'll pay for repairs to the Mariposa."_

Malcolm gazed at the unwieldy object, wondering how they were going to be able to lash it to the ship to survive flight. He also wondered what it was. Could it pose a threat to them? He said, "Before we do that, we should carry out some scans. Determine exactly what it is."

_"Does it matter?"_ snorted Gomez dismissively, his attention taken by the disfiguring rent to his vessel. He was now making his way gingerly along the brutally-stripped hull, stopping to examine the damage at close hand. Malcolm could hear his dismayed reactions at each new unwelcome discovery.

"It won't take long," assured Malcolm, watching Gomez' slow progress. "If we are going to be hugging that thing while we return to the Facility, we really should know what it is." It could be a bomb. Or a mine. Were there more of them? Malcolm craned his head around to see if he could spot anything else lurking in their vicinity

Gomez grunted_. "Okay, some scans then, but make it quick. I'm not happy being stuck here. We need to get moving."_

Malcolm made best speed back to the airlock and soon returned with his most sophisticated scanning platform. It was set for geological surveys. That was were its strengths lay, but it was possible to recalibrate for other substances such as alloys, or even biosigns. He directed the equipment sensors at the object and tapped through the available settings with practiced ease. Then he set the scan running and manoeuvred to watch the real-time results build up.

Nothing was registering at all! He frowned in irritation at the blank display. What a time for it to go out of service! He called up the internal diagnostic. That reported all as working. Malcolm shook his head and tried again, re-initialising everything to start from scratch. No success. It still didn't read anything. According to his equipment, this item did not exist. He eyed the intruder's solidity over the top of his display - taunting him. Yep. It was most definitely there. If he could have reached inside his helmet, he would have scratched his head.

Gomez loomed up alongside. _"Well?"_ he demanded. _"What is it?"_

Malcolm shook his head and tried yet again. Still nothing. He did not like this one bit. Why would anyone go to such lengths to disguise an object like this? What was it! His frustration boiled over. "I'm damned if I know. Can't we leave it here with a marker buoy? Come back to it later with reinforcements?" Even, heaven help them, with a Starfleet ship. He looked hopefully at Gomez.

Gomez' answer was immediate and decisive._ "No. I'm not wasting time with a return journey, and I'm not prepared to share the proceeds. I'm not diluting them by getting anyone else involved."_

"It could be dangerous-"

_"I'm not going to leave it." _Gomez was implacable.

"But, Red-"

_"Enough, Pan! This is my ship and I'm the Skipper. Now help me secure it or go back inside. I'm not listening to any more objections. Understand?" _Gomez was normally pretty easy-going, but now he was undeniably laying down the law.

Malcolm sighed. "Yes, Skipper," he said reluctantly. He made his way over to Bailey to help unship the handling mechanisms and grappling lines.

The three men worked diligently to extract the object, which Bailey had taken to calling Baby, from the cargo bay using the gear that was more properly designed for hauling lumps of asteroid around. The first part of the task was the most challenging - removing the object without causing further damage to the ship. Their mining skills helped, and eventually they had it free. Malcolm was grateful once more for his foresight in paying for top spec EV suit. The exercise had taken hours of labour with few breaks.

They paused to consider the next step, the object now disengaged from the ship and parked a little away from it. Malcolm made one last plea for caution. "Red, I really think we should leave it here. It could be anything. And there might be others out here we can't detect."

Gomez glared at him, the lighting of his suit giving his face an unhealthy pallor. _"For the last time - no! It's my decision to make, and I've made it. And as for any others- we can't do anything about that if we can't see them, can we? Now - are you going to help secure it?"_

Malcolm gave in. He had done his best. He only hoped his inability to convince Gomez was not going to be punished down the line. "Yes. Okay."

The men tethered the device against the hull with grappling lines and nets. Once that was secure, they reconfigured the thruster assemblies and reset the controls. Then they had to reroute some of the ship's systems that had been disrupted by the collision. It was hard, concentrated work, and both physically and mentally demanding.

By the time the Mariposa was ready to get underway again with its mysterious hitchhiker, they were exhausted. Malcolm took one last, anxious look at the thing before he returned inside. His only comforting thought was that, if it was indeed a destructive device of some kind, it had had ample opportunity to do its job, and so far it had remained quiescent. He still couldn't understand Gomez' eagerness to place them all in such a potentially threatening situation, but, short of carrying out a one-man mutiny, he was in no position to change matters.

----------------------

Malcolm relaxed on the couch in the common area, letting his mind wander as he stared out of the window. His worries were firmly pushed to one side. There was nothing he could do about the situation, and that was all there was to it. Over in a corner, Gomez was tapping away at his PADD, providing an almost soothing background of normality. They were underway, at last, with Bailey on the flight deck, steering the Mariposa along a painfully slow and careful course back to the Facility.

The shower had done Malcolm a world of good. Lazily, he stretched out his legs, easing the tired muscles. Now what he needed was a few hours of uninterrupted sleep and he was certainly ready for it. He was exhausted.

Still… it was all very unsettling. He sighed. Try as he might, he couldn't forget that they were carrying an unwelcome passenger. There was one good thing, however. They had cleared another hurdle. The object hadn't done anything untoward when the engines started up.

Malcolm looked over to Gomez, deeply engrossed in his PADD. Perhaps he could have another go at persuading Gomez to rig up some sort of quick release mechanism to free 'Baby' if it suddenly woke up? No - it would do no good. And with no way to detect Baby's status, what warning would they get, anyway?

Baby! What a ridiculous name - trust Bailey! Malcolm snorted.

Gomez glanced up from his PADD. "Thanks again for helping out there. We'd still be at it without you."

Malcolm shrugged. "No problem. I just hope the repairs hold out." And we don't get blown to smithereens.

"I'll keep our speed down to reduce hull stresses. We'll be okay." Gomez sounded confident.

Malcolm thought about that hulking unknown now firmly attached to their hull. He suppressed a shudder. "I ran a diagnostic on the ship's emergency beacon," he offered.

Gomez laughed, then cut it short as he took in Malcolm's demeanour. "You're not joking, are you?"

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. Why would he be joking? He'd made a point of checking it the first opportunity he had had during the repairs.

Gomez shook his head. "Has anyone ever told you you're a touch paranoid?"

More than a few, thought Malcolm. Instead, he said, "I prefer to call myself a realist."

"Doesn't that make life... worrisome?"

"It's kept me alive. And my ship safe." On the whole. He had done his best. But there were those they'd lost, out there in the Expanse. One's best wasn't always good enough. Malcolm dragged his thoughts from that path. He knew where it would lead and he didn't want to go there, especially sitting next to Gomez. Hastily, he looked away, returning to his stargazing.

"Any plans for your share?" asked Gomez after a few minutes.

"Huh?" Malcolm broke his unseeing stare from the window. "Share?" he repeated stupidly.

"Of the salvage. I think we'd do best getting a few of the traders from the Inolga system to bid on it." Gomez waved his PADD around. "I've been doing some calculations. We should do well out of it."

"I have a share?" said Malcolm, surprised. He was only on temporary contract and for specific duties. He hadn't thought the salvage would have anything to do with him.

"Of course. One portion for the Mariposa, a larger one for me as skipper - which taken together work out to one half in total for me - then the other half split between you and Mot, 75 per cent in favour of Mot. So you'll get one eighth."

"Oh." Malcolm was none the wiser.

"One eighth might not sound like much, but believe me, whatever this Baby turns out to be, the hull material alone will bring in a lot of interest. And who knows what's inside it."

"Umm. Shouldn't we tell Starfleet?"

"Why? So they can stomp around and insist they know best?"

"It could be important."

"They'll want to take it away for examination. We'd never get our money."

Malcolm considered that point. Gomez was probably right. However, there were wider considerations here. He said firmly, "Starfleet should be told. There are all sorts of things going on that we have no idea about." Something nagged at the back of his mind. "Isn't there some sort of compensation scheme?"

Gomez gave a derisive laugh. "There is, but it'll only give us a fraction of what we could get elsewhere. Usually, no one bothers to tell them."

"Usually! Is this commonplace?" Malcolm was shocked.

"No, not exactly. But it isn't extremely rare, either, to come across an alien artefact." Gomez grinned. "Look, what Starfleet doesn't know won't hurt them."

Malcolm bit his lip. This was pure irresponsibility. Every piece of information gathered by Starfleet could prove crucial. He didn't like Gomez' plan one little bit.

Gomez gave him a mocking salute. "Coffee, _sir_?" He picked up the coffee pot.

Malcolm shook his head irritably, annoyed by Gomez' dig at him. "Is this why you're offering me a share, so I'll go along with whatever you want to do?"

Gomez poured from the coffee pot. "To tell the truth, I never even thought this would be an issue. As I said, that's the way we handle things around here. You are entitled to a share through custom and practice. And I'm honourable enough to follow that. It might be legally enforceable, anyway - I don't know."

Malcolm frowned. "I don't like this. We should tell Starfleet."

Gomez threw his hands up. "Enough! What is the matter with you? It isn't your call anyway. It's mine, then Mot's."

"If Mot agreed with me, wouldn't it be two to one?"

"No. I've explained. You two together will get half, which means you have half the say. But I have the deciding vote. That's academic, though. I can guarantee Mot wants all the money he can get."

Malcolm scowled at Gomez. "Why are you so certain about that? He might want to follow regulations."

Gomez gave a scornful laugh at that unlikely idea. "He won't. As I said, I can guarantee it."

Malcolm's mind was spinning as he tried to resolve the conflict. It seemed that Gomez was determined to follow this course. How important was it, really, to inform Starfleet? He didn't want to be disloyal to Gomez, whose friendship he valued. And it wouldn't do his business any good, either, if the other miners thought he couldn't be trusted. Was there another approach? Perhaps he could take scans before sending it for scrap, if they could get inside the hull, and then send the results to Starfleet? Was that a workable compromise?

Gomez drank his coffee, watching Malcolm's obvious turmoil. He said slyly, "Perhaps you should rejoin Starfleet. Plenty of regs there for you."

Malcolm snorted irritably. "Regulations aren't always a bad thing, you know. But no - I don't want to return to Starfleet."

"Hmm. Is there more to this?"

"What?" said Malcolm, not understanding him.

Gomez took a sip of his drink, then said offhandedly, "I hope you are not going to keep us awake all night."

Malcolm frowned. Now what was he getting at? "Sorry?"

"Well, I guess that Baby might give you the jitters."

Malcolm flushed as he placed the reference, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance. He didn't deign to reply - merely gave Gomez the filthiest look he could muster.

"Is that why you were chucked out of Starfleet, then?" continued Gomez, in a conversational tone.

Malcolm's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. "I beg your pardon!" he said. Gomez' needling manner had completely thrown him. He had thought he had come to an understanding with the man, even begun to regard him as a friend, but this was... disconcerting. It was like the past year had never happened and he was back at day one with Gomez.

Gomez smiled thinly. "I was just wondering, that's all. Nerves shot, were they? Unable to cope with the pressures? Cracked?"

That did it.

Malcolm snapped out forcefully, "It is none of your business, but for your information, I resigned - and at the top of my game. What's the matter, Gomez? Don't like to be told the truth? That all our work might end in tears when Baby turns out to be a booby trap. When you lose your precious ship?"

"You're a worrier, paranoid," Gomez sneered.

"So I've been told before, many times, but - as I told you - I'm still alive and I kept my ship in one piece. And what's more, it was no sinecure."

"What ship would that be?" The tone was disdainful, implying it must have been second-rate.

Stung, Malcolm said tightly, "That would be none of your damn business, either." He was ready to let rip and trying his utmost to keep a lid on it. He did not want to lose his self-control. He daren't risk it.

Gomez studied him for a long moment. Then he dropped his head. When he raised it again to meet Malcolm's hard expression, his face had softened. The contemptuous glint in his eyes had disappeared. He leaned forward and clapped Malcolm on the arm.

Malcolm stiffened in suspicion, fighting the compulsion to move this confrontation from talk to action.

Gomez said seriously, "I apologise. You're right. It is none of my concern. I'm sorry to have got after you like that, but I needed to be sure."

"Sure of what?" asked Malcolm, still wary.

"Sure that you can handle yourself. If you get into trouble, that you can get out again - not have a nervous breakdown."

Malcolm made an incredulous sound. This was unbelievable! "Why not just ask me?"

"I needed the truth. I think you gave me that."

"I did, but I would have done anyway. That was unnecessary." Malcolm paused. "What kind of trouble are you expecting?"

"None imminently, but I have a favour to ask. Well, perhaps, more of a proposition." Gomez settled forward in his seat, getting ready for a discussion.

Malcolm didn't feel inclined to grant any favours to Gomez. He was incredibly angry with the man. How dare he deliberately goad him like that when a simple question would have done? "Not now," he ground out. He got to his feet. "I'll try to keep my demons away from you, Gomez. Wouldn't want to frighten you, would I?"

He made off down the corridor to his quarters, realising that they were in actuality some distance from Gomez' anyway. He'd never considered that before.

* * *

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: see Chapter 1.

A/N: Thank you for the reviews. They are very much appreciated.

Volley: I think the ending is satisfying, although you might have doubts along the way as it will get rather bumpy on more than one front. I hope that doesn't put anyone off!

* * *

**Chapter 7**

The Mariposa lay silently heaved-to with engines down. They were being ultra-cautious, given the substantial amount of damage she had sustained, and checking out structural soundness at regular intervals. Whenever they resumed, it was at a snail's pace.

Malcolm ran a handheld scanner over the edge of the hull breach. The metal ties were doing their job and integrity was holding - just about. He moved over to inspect the newly added beam he had welded on to buttress a repaired area. That checked out too. Satisfied, he switched off his scanner and stood up. His eyes caught a figure making its way towards him. Gomez.

Malcolm sighed. It had been two days since his confrontation with the man and he wasn't any happier about it. What particularly angered him was the feeling of betrayal of a burgeoning friendship.

Gomez moved to activate his comm circuit. His voice came through on Malcolm's earpiece. _"How is it?"_

"Hull integrity is holding steady. The new support is fast, Skipper." Malcolm had taken refuge in formality, what little there was of it. This approach had served him well in the past. It would do now, also. He had been pulling his shifts, and more, to help with the emergency, but had made a point of avoiding both Gomez and Bailey outside of work. He ate alone and stayed in his quarters.

Gomez reached the modified support and bent down to examine it. _"Good work, Pan,"_ he said.

Malcolm gritted his teeth against the unwanted familiarity. "Thank you, Skipper," he answered, a light emphasis on the title.

He heard Gomez sigh. _"Look, Pan... Reed. We need to talk."_

"I have no new suggestions for repairs, Skipper," said Malcolm, deliberately obtuse.

Gomez swore. _"You know what I mean!"_

"There is nothing to be said," snapped Malcolm, turning away. He started for the airlock.

By the time he reached it, Gomez had caught up, and they went through the pressurisation cycle together. Immediately atmosphere was established, Gomez pulled off his helmet. "We talk - now!"

Malcolm tried to push past him, fumbling at his helmet fastenings as he did so. Gomez interposed himself before the door.

"Get out of the way, Gomez," said Malcolm quietly, removing his helmet. "Before I do something you'll regret."

Gomez' eyes flashed. "Threats, is it?"

"No. A friendly warning. Let me past!"

Before Malcolm could stop him, Gomez locked the inner door with an override code. "We talk!" he said.

Malcolm sighed and said sulkily, "Seems I don't have a choice." He glowered at the floor, waiting for Gomez to say his piece so he could escape. No doubt he would now be subjected to a lecture on repair costs, and the necessity of selling Baby to the highest bidder instead of informing Starfleet.

Malcolm had weighed the pros and cons, and concluded that Gomez' stance just won out. Starfleet would have to make do with any information he could get for them. But he hadn't yet told Gomez he'd decided to go along with his plan. Let him stew!

Malcolm tightened the hold on his helmet, wanting to get this unwelcome chat over with. "Well?" he said impatiently, keeping his eyes locked on the floor.

Gathering himself, Gomez took a deep breath and said, "I am sorry for what I did. I shouldn't have said what I did to you."

Malcolm remained silent, giving no sign of having heard. Gomez' words had taken him by surprise. However, he wasn't prepared to let him off the hook for what he'd said. He was still furious with Gomez.

Getting no response, Gomez said, "I apologise. You were right. I could have simply asked you if you were able to deal with what I had in mind. I had no right to insinuate that you were... unstable in any way."

"Right. Good. That it?" said Malcolm briskly. "Let me out, then."

"I did apologise! Isn't that enough?"

Malcolm tapped his foot. "I heard. Unlock the door."

"What will it take?"

Malcolm stared at him, and then shook his head. "I don't know," he said quietly, shifting his gaze to the wall. He was intensely loyal, and when that loyalty was betrayed… Well, it had never been fixable before. He sighed. After all, Gomez was trying to put it right. He did deserve something.

Malcolm met Gomez' eyes and said, "I really don't know. I can't help how I feel." He fumbled around for the words. This baring of his soul did not come naturally to him. "I suppose... I suppose I feel like you've taken advantage of a confidence, almost. You saw me having that bad dream - something I had no control over. For you to assume that somehow... that I was discharged from Starfleet because of that sort of thing... That I couldn't cope. And the way you felt you had to go about it…" He shook his head. "I thought we were friends, that you knew me better than that." He gave an unhappy smile. "Obviously, I was wrong."

Gomez said, "We are friends! Or were. I hope we can be still. It was a stupid misjudgement on my part. I don't know why I said that, except I was exhausted, and worried about the ship. And I was concerned about Bailey - this potential trouble is to do with him." He slumped back against the door. "I went about it totally wrong. I know I did. All I can say in my defence, is that I was tired, and not thinking too clearly."

Malcolm considered Gomez' words. He was completely sincere, that was for sure. Was it worth losing a friend - a good friend, possibly - over an admitted misjudgement? Who would that benefit? Who would lose out?

Eventually, Malcolm nodded. "We all make mistakes," he said. He held out his hand.

Gomez smiled in relief and took it, giving a firm shake.

"Now," said Malcolm, squinting around the airlock. "Are you going to let us out, or do we stay here and run out of air? Your choice!"

Gomez grinned and opened the door. "After you!"

Malcolm stepped into the corridor. He decided they might as well get all of it sorted out now they had started to talk. "So… your proposition?" he asked.

Gomez said, surprised, "Are you sure you want to talk about it right now?"

"Yeah. Why not?" said Malcolm, a weight lifting from him as normality returned. Perhaps there was something to be said for talking things through, after all.

----------------------

Gomez led the way to the common area and dropped into a seat, watching Malcolm carefully as he sat down opposite, as if checking that their new accord wasn't some mirage.

"So," said Malcolm, settling himself. "This proposition?"

"Before I go into that…" Gomez hesitated.

Malcolm gazed at him curiously. "Go on. Say what you have to," he urged.

"Okay. You said you were an armoury officer. What exactly does that entail?"

Where to start! Malcolm grinned. He decided on the abridged version. "Oh, quite a lot, actually. But the main responsibilities are keeping the weapons and targeting sensors functional, and firing the weapons."

Gomez face dropped. "So, ship to ship? Long range?"

"That's usually the case, yes. It's amazing how much technology has improved over the years. The accuracy of torpedoes now is- Ha. I'm sorry. I got carried away there!" Malcolm cut it short. He was all too familiar with the glazed expression that tended to come over people when faced with too much information. He had never found it a problem, himself, but others weren't so fortunate.

"No close quarters action, then?" Gomez still seemed disappointed.

"We faced that as well. Hand-to-hand combat at times, boarding parties, alien worlds."

"Really! I hadn't realised Starfleet had been so… active."

"Well, my ship was."

Malcolm watched as Gomez tried to work that one out. He decided he may as well tell him - after all, it wasn't as if it was a great secret. It was just that when people knew, they wanted him to talk about it, and most of the time he didn't want to, not to outsiders. He said, "My last ship was Enterprise."

"Enterprise," gasped Gomez. "You were an armoury officer on Enterprise?"

Malcolm couldn't help preening himself. "Chief Armoury Officer, actually. And Chief of Security."

"Oh!" Gomez sat up in surprise.

Malcolm gave a quiet self-depreciating laugh. He waved a hand at his face. "Yeah. I know! Difficult to believe, isn't it, when I go and get a couple of shiners in a brawl? Not exactly a glowing recommendation, huh?"

Gomez shook his head in dismissal of Malcolm's modesty. "Well, in that case, I'm sure you can cope with what I have in mind."

"Which is?" Malcolm was intrigued.

"Mot has a younger brother - Pete. Pete got into trouble on a planet called Ramessa. I don't know the exact details - a business venture went wrong. Anyway, it resulted in Pete being found guilty of some crime. That was about six years ago - longer now I guess - and he's still serving his sentence."

"Sounds rough." Malcolm had never heard of Ramessa, but any jail term had to be hard, and on an alien world, as well. It wasn't something he would ever want to experience.

Gomez sighed deeply. "Yeah. I think it is. Starfleet refused to help when Pete was arrested, or afterwards - hence Mot's animosity toward them. Mot wants to get him away from there."

Malcolm shifted awkwardly. He wanted to do what he could to help Bailey, but this didn't sit well with him. If Starfleet had refused to intervene, that indicated that there was probable cause for Pete receiving a jail sentence. Regretfully, he said, "I dunno. If this was all done legally by the authorities… I'm not sure that I want to get involved in a prison break." Certainly not for someone he didn't even know, even if it was Bailey's brother.

Gomez exclaimed, "Oh, no! Mot wouldn't want that, either. Huh, well, perhaps if he thought he might get away with it, and be capable of it… but he's not that deluded! No - there's a mechanism for paying a fine, and that commutes the sentence. Mot hasn't been able to do that yet, because it works out to a lot of money, but with the prospect of funds from salvaging Baby..."

"He's reached his goal," said Malcolm thoughtfully.

"Yeah - or very nearly."

"I don't see the problem."

"Ramessa is some distance from this sector. It would mean several transfers to get there, and also several money exchanges. Human currency wouldn't be acceptable."

Malcolm imagined Bailey careering around the sector, trying to find safe ways of informing people he had a large sum of money to convert, and gave up. He nodded in comprehension. "Mot won't make it very far. If he's lucky, he'll get away with his life."

"Yeah. I can't go with him. The Mariposa has to be kept operating, otherwise the running costs would overwhelm me."

"You could charter her out," suggested Malcolm.

"I did think of that, but finding the right party to lease her to is difficult. You need a combination of resources and skills."

Malcolm understood what Gomez was asking. "So - you want me to go with Mot?"

"Consider it, at least. Mot is going - there's no two ways about it. If you're not interested, I'll try to get him to find someone else."

Malcolm ran through in his mind the possible candidates he knew at the Facility. None were entirely satisfactory. Bailey would have to look further afield, but that brought its own problems. And he did owe Bailey his life. "Hmm. Let me think about it. I can't promise anything, but we've some time before the money comes through."

Gomez smiled. "Okay. I'll tell Mot you're considering it. Now… I'm cooking. Hungry?"

"Yeah. I'll risk it!" Malcolm grinned back. Some company would be a pleasant change after his days of self-imposed exile.

----------------------

The Mariposa had finally struggled into her home port, still hugging the alien artefact tightly to herself. The repairs had held, they hadn't been blown up, and Malcolm was feeling a little easier. Perhaps this salvage idea hadn't been so ludicrous, after all. He wondered exactly how much his share would come to. He hadn't pursued the matter with Gomez or Bailey as he didn't want to seemingly endorse their madcap scheme, but now...

He gazed out at the Facility from the ship's common area, watching the everyday activity. There were several mining ships unloading and waiting to unload. Hulking workhorses - perfect for their purpose. Malcolm ran his eyes over the ugly lines of the nearest ship - the Drunken Duck. A vessel like that would be out of the question. Far too expensive, even excluding all the necessary gear. But he didn't want one, anyway. Mining would never be his whole life if he could manage that.

No, what he truly coveted was a small two- or three- man ship - nothing too fancy. Ideally, something fast and manoeuvrable, but he could always add upgrades.

His own transport would bring independence. Then he could leave a mining site after all the technical explosives work was finished - the high value stuff. He wouldn't have to depend on the miner for his return trip. That would give him more free time, and he could concentrate on the lucrative side of the business - forget about the labouring. He sucked his teeth. Of course, he would have to find some way of allaying the miners' concerns about knowing the location of their activities, but he was sure there would be a way around that stumbling block.

He could go off to other places in between mining stints - do some exploring of this sector. His own ship! He started thinking about names. 'Victory' would probably be too weighty for the type of ship he had in mind. 'Revenge' was liable to be misunderstood. How about 'Dragonfly'…? That was a possibility. He shook his head in surprise at getting so carried away. One step at a time, he told himself. Anyway, it was bad luck to change a ship's name.

Bailey lumbered in. "He's still at it. Young must be driving a hard bargain."

"Hmm," said Malcolm, turning away from the window, and from dreaming, to practicalities. "And what happens if we don't interest any buyers? How will we pay the storage fee?"

"You worry too much. We won't have any problems there." Bailey slumped down and stretched out his arms over his head, giving a loud burp. He grinned at Malcolm's sniff of disgust. "Too much good food," he said by way of explanation.

"Yeah. Right."

"Have you decided what you're going to do with your share?"

"Not really," said Malcolm. He wasn't prepared to share his idea with Bailey - not just yet. "Red told me about your plans."

"Yeah. He said he'd spoken to you." Bailey looked speculatively at Malcolm. "And?"

"I'd be happy to go with you, Mot."

Bailey gave an enormous grin and jumped up, wrapping an arm around Malcolm's shoulders and pumping his hand. "Great! I'm sure I'd be okay by myself, but having someone along to keep me company will be good."

Malcolm extricated himself. "From what I've been able to find out, it shouldn't take too long."

"No. There and back - easy."

"Umm. We'll see."

A call came through on the comm. _"Gomez to the Mariposa."_

"Go ahead, Red," answered Bailey.

_"All sorted out. Bring the ship round to the other side. We'll be offloading Baby into Cargo Area Gamma 1."_

"Understood. See you soon." Bailey closed the channel. "Right, Pan. I'll pilot. You suit up."

"Okay." Malcolm went to get ready, amazed that even the Facility Admin apparently had no objections to embracing this cuckoo on their precious station.

----------------------

The alien artefact had been secured in the cargo area, well away from any other stores. Malcolm made for it through the Facility's warren of corridors, carefully manoeuvring a trolley over the raised bulkheads at each section junction. He didn't want to damage his scanning equipment. It was heavy-duty and had fared well so far, but he couldn't bring himself to treat it with anything less than his best care. He was still wearing his EV suit, thankful once more for its lightweight nature as he trudged along the endless corridors to the other side of the Facility.

So - what was the safest way to deal with Baby? Without knowing what was inside, they should be cautious. Malcolm had decided to carry out another set of scans - although he doubted that they would yield anything at all - and then cut into it under controlled conditions. If they wore EV suits and isolated the cargo area, that would protect them from anything nasty lurking within. His helmet was balanced on top of the scanner, ready to hand.

He had the plan of attack pretty firmly mapped out by the time he reached the cargo bay doors and pressed the door button. The doors slid across to reveal Baby - looking a lot bigger now it was enclosed in a confined space - and a gaggle of men gathered around it. Malcolm stopped, transfixed at the sight.

It was not what he had expected to see. Gone was the featureless object he had helped to transfer to the Facility. Baby now had a large rectangular opening in its side with a ramp leading up to it. Its interior was exposed to the atmosphere.

Blinking rapidly and holding his breath, Malcolm reached for his suit helmet, simultaneously turning to check the environmental controls on the wall. But it was no good. He dropped the helmet back down. They hadn't bothered to isolate the air recycling for this area. If anything harmful had launched itself from Baby when it had been opened up, it was too late now. It would be all around the station and already thoroughly absorbed by his own body.

With a sigh, Malcolm pulled out the medical scanner he had filched from the Infirmary on his way over. He was no expert but it was easy enough to set it for biohazards.

A loud voice called out to him. "Pan. Come look!"

"Yes, Mot. Okay," said Malcolm distractedly, calming a little as the medical scan failed to report anything more hazardous than the usual bugs that always clung to human structures. He pocketed the scanner with a shrug and made his way over to join the group.

The ramp appeared to be formed by a section of wall which had dropped down to reveal a pitch-black interior. The men - and one woman - Young's deputy Elmira was there, too - were peering in but not ready to set foot inside just yet.

Malcolm stared at the doorway. "How did you get it to open?" he asked. He had seen no trace of this feature on his scans.

"Don't know," said Gomez. "Mot tried a plasma torch on it, and before he could get anywhere it just appeared and dropped down."

Bailey glanced at Malcolm. "We waited for you before going in, seeing as part of it is yours. You would've had time to get changed out of your EV suit."

Malcolm stilled his first response about taking prudent steps to limit contamination. It was academic now. He looked around at the expectant group. "Who's going in first?"

"I will," said Bailey immediately. "Give me that flashlight." He placed a foot onto the ramp, testing its stability.

"Wait," said Malcolm. "It might have defences."

"It's okay," said Mot, taking a couple more steps and reaching his long arm into the darkness. He waved his hand around. "Look. That hasn't set anything off."

Malcolm bit his lip and craned to see what was inside. It was difficult because the light beam swung wildly about.

"Keep it steady, Bailey," said Young. "Swing it around slowly."

The interior of the vessel was strangely angled, with odd conjunctions of surfaces and an unsettling wrongness about how it all fitted together. The dancing light emphasised the alien aesthetics. Bailey's bulk cut out most of the interior from the sight of the others. He made his way to the left, swearing as he knocked a knee against an outcropping of a wall. "Whoever built this had no idea," he muttered. Suddenly, the interior was flooded with an intense blue-white light.

"I think that was the light switch," commented Malcolm, shielding his eyes. This was not a dead, lifeless object. There must be a power source somewhere. They needed to be vigilant.

The light intensity lessened to a more bearable level and Bailey continued on his way. Now the others could see inside. There were indicators of some kind. Malcolm's concern grew. They seemed to be active - changing shape and colour. He cautiously stepped up the ramp to get a better look.

"My God!" exclaimed Bailey, swinging around and succeeding in dazzling everyone again as the flashlight followed an arc across the spectators. His mouth hung open.

"What?" said Gomez.

Bailey shook his head and rammed a thumb back over his shoulder, but didn't speak. With some trepidation, Malcolm pushed past him to the end of the object. There was a knee-high surface to one side, a couple of metres long. Bailey seized Malcolm's arm from behind and pointed to the ledge. Malcolm shook off the hold and stepped toward it. He gasped. One end had a clear transparent region, and through it, an alien face was clearly visible. The object's owner was still at home!

----------------------

"Does anyone recognise the species?" asked Gomez. Everyone had crammed into Baby to gawp at the alien and now they were outside again, still stunned at their discovery.

There was a smattering of negatives in response. The alien was humanoid and had small tentacles or feelers on parts of its face - distinctive and memorable enough, except no one had come across anything like that before.

"His biosigns are weak," said Malcolm, holding up the medical scanner. "Perhaps that's because he is in stasis?"

Elmira said, "I have had some experience of stasis chambers - mostly the engineering side, but I know what they are supposed to do. The biosigns should be reduced but stable. Of course, I can't be sure, not knowing what's normal for this species, but these readings are erratic and faint. In short - not good."

Gomez ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Well, that's that. We have to tell Starfleet after all."

"No!" protested Bailey. "Why? What difference does this make?"

Malcolm explained, "We can't do anything for this alien. We don't have the facilities or experts to revive him safely. Starfleet has the required expertise."

"Why should we try to revive it!" exploded Bailey, glaring at Malcolm. "From what Elmira says, if we hadn't come along, it wouldn't have lasted much longer anyway. And it's in that state because of its own equipment. We should just switch off the power supply."

Young nodded, rubbing vigorously at his jaw. "I agree. I don't want Starfleet around here. They've no jurisdiction. How difficult is it to disconnect the life support?"

Bailey said, "I'm sure I can find it easily enough."

"No!" said Malcolm, in horror, swinging from one to the other. "How can you even suggest such a thing?"

"Pan's right, Mot," said Gomez. "What if one of us was in that position and we were found by aliens?"

Bailey grunted but subsided. Sullenly, he said, "Well, if we do tell Starfleet, I want my compensation money from them."

"Don't worry," said Gomez. "I'll make sure of that."

"And don't forget the storage fees, Gomez," said Young. "Get Starfleet to pay for them, too, otherwise you'll owe us a lot of ore by the time you're finished with it. Who knows how long they'll take to get here?"

"Yes, yes," said Gomez testily. "I'm losing out as well, remember? I don't like this any more than you do, but I don't think we have any alternative."

They all looked gloomily at Baby, its promised riches turned into obligation and something a lot less financially rewarding.

----------------------

Malcolm was alone with the sleeping alien, still barely alive in his stasis chamber. The brief excitement had rippled through the Facility, the curious had been to look and those proclaiming indifference had sauntered along later when no one was likely to notice them. Now the alien was left in peace.

The scanner alert sounded to show another run was finished. A picture of this craft was slowly building, but it was far from complete. Malcolm had located external sensors, the door mechanism and life support - a breathable atmosphere - and that was about it. He knew there was a power supply but how it functioned was still a mystery and would remain so for now. His equipment was good, but not that good. It needed some serious computing power to discover more of the secrets contained here.

Snapping the scanner into standby mode, Malcolm made his way to the stasis chamber, and once more gazed down at the being lying there, unaware of his surroundings. The biosigns remained thready and dangerously low. Malcolm sighed and placed a hand on the cool casing. He had an uncomfortable suspicion that this alien's luck had finally run out.

The callous attitude of Young, Bailey and some of the others had dismayed him. They didn't seem to be able to recognise the kindred sentience. Perhaps they had had bad experiences with aliens, as Bailey clearly had done, but then… He sighed. He guessed humans were just as capable of inflicting distress on each other without outside assistance. It would be some time before mankind could wholly shake off their heritage, reawakened by the Xindi attack.

"Good luck," he said quietly, giving the casing a pat. "Help is on its way."

The alien remained oblivious, of course. Malcolm gathered his equipment together. With a final glance, he left the alien to his desperate, lonely fight. Malcolm had done all he could. Now he had to get back to the day job - mining.

* * *

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: see Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 8**

The normally meticulously kept room was strewn about with dirty clothing and bits of equipment, wires and fibres, plus a few charges more carefully set out on the shelf above the bunk.

Malcolm grimaced as he surveyed the mess. He had just had a shower and was standing next to his bunk - the only place available - drying his hair vigorously with a towel. The last campaign with Ferrino had been fairly profitable, but he hadn't much enjoyed the experience. Ferrino had taken stimulants to keep going, leading to some dangerous situations when the tiredness hit in. No, thought Malcolm, he wouldn't accept a contract with him again if he had a choice.

His comm sounded.

"Reed," he answered, kicking away his kitbag into a corner in an attempt to achieve some semblance of order.

_"Young here. We need you in Cargo Area Gamma 1."_

"Okay." Young closed the comm channel before Malcolm had even completed his brief reply.

Malcolm gave one last rub with the towel, then flung it on the bunk and pulled a quick comb through his damp hair. Should he get his scanner? He decided against that. He had carried out all the investigations he wanted to on the alien craft, or, more accurately, all those his equipment was capable of. If there had been a change in Baby's status, he could always return for the scanner. Besides, Young probably would have mentioned it, if that were the case.

Mulling over the reason for this meeting, Malcolm set out for the cargo area on the far side of the Facility. The corridors were quiet, most of the miners being out on campaign, although he came across some maintenance staff welding a strut over a doorway. They stopped to let him pass and he gave them an absent-minded greeting, still wondering about what Young wanted.

Malcolm hoped Young wasn't going to argue again about switching off the life support of the alien in stasis. In fact, he suddenly thought with concern, he wouldn't put it past the man to have already carried out such a plan, whilst he was off-station. Why else would he have summoned Malcolm to a meeting there rather than in his office? Concerned, Malcolm increased his pace.

At last, Malcolm reached the large double doors and pressed the button for admittance. Stepping into the cargo area, he pulled up short in stunned amazement. The doors slid shut behind him as he stood frozen, his feet seemingly fused to the deckplates. A single rapid glance took in the tableau confronting him.

There, standing next to Baby's open hatch, were Captain Archer, Trip and another Starfleet man. Archer and Trip were peering inside whilst the other stood back a little. He was armed, noted Malcolm. Archer and Trip weren't. Young was there, too, pointing at something inside the alien craft, and waiting next to him, Gomez and Bailey.

Malcolm shook off his inertia and made for the group.

Bailey turned to face Malcolm as he heard him approach. "Pan! I thought you'd still be out with Ferrino?"

"Uh, no. I caught a lift back," muttered Malcolm, still taken aback. It had been just over a year since he had seen his ex-comrades and he had had no inkling that Enterprise was anywhere near this sector.

Young gestured towards Malcolm and said, "Captain Archer, this is the other man who found the vessel - Reed. Reed, this is Captain Archer, Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Waters."

Trip was grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Mister Reed," he said, clearly enjoying Malcolm's dazed reaction.

Archer stepped away from the alien ship. "Mister Reed," he said coolly, no hint of any warmth in his manner. Malcolm was grateful for that. He wouldn't have been able to stomach any hypocrisy.

"Gentlemen," said Malcolm in acknowledgement, regaining his composure as these niceties were carried out.

Archer waved at the lieutenant. "My Armoury Officer," he said, almost daring Malcolm to say something. Malcolm merely gave a curt nod. He didn't know the man, or of him. Waters was nearly as tall as Trip but broader, powerful looking, with short-cropped dark hair.

"So," said Archer. His attention shifted to Gomez, skimming over Malcolm. "What can you tell me about this?"

Gomez went briefly through the discovery of the craft, pointing out that the details were all included in the notification they had transmitted to Starfleet. As Gomez spoke, it gave Malcolm an opportunity to observe Archer. He looked tired and there was a hardness about him that was familiar to Malcolm - he had seen it often during their mission in the Expanse.

Gomez finished his piece and nodded at Malcolm. "Reed's done the most investigation of it."

Taking his cue, Malcolm folded his arms and got down to business. "Initial scans were inconclusive. The equipment was unable to penetrate the hull or determine its composition. Following- "

Lieutenant Waters interrupted him. "What level were these scans? Basic, I guess." His condescending tone irritated Malcolm.

"No, actually," flared Malcolm. "They were pretty comprehensive. My scanner is quite sophisticated."

"But nothing could be read?" said Waters unbelievingly.

"It's not unheard of," snapped Malcolm, glancing at Trip.

"No, it's not," agreed Trip, meeting Malcolm's eyes.

Waters' sceptical expression remained but he didn't say anything. Malcolm chalked him down as a dolt - after all, there would be several entries in Enterprise's mission logs concerning similar results. Clearly, Waters had skipped that part of his education.

Determined not to give way to any more interruptions, Malcolm continued briskly, "When the vessel was opened, a stasis device was found, hooked up to this alien. No one here recognises the species. I took some internal scans of the ship and did a few tests. I can find no evidence of what the propulsive means is and decided not to proceed any further. Leave it to Starfleet to sort out." He gave a thin half-smile. "After all, that's your job? Isn't it?"

"Yes, Lieu... Mister Reed, it is," replied Archer, squinting inside the alien ship again.

Waters said, "I trust full precautions were taken when this hatch was opened?"

Malcolm stared silently at him, but Bailey shot Gomez a puzzled look and answered, "Well, we just kinda cut into it."

"Wearing EV suits, I presume," said the lieutenant.

Damn you, thought Malcolm. Waters knew that wouldn't be the case. He just wanted to show off. Arrogant git.

"Uh, no," said Bailey, looking confused.

Waters pursed his lips. "That was not at all wise. Current regulations stipulate that EV suits must be worn in such circumstances."

"Er, yes," said Malcolm. "But regulations don't apply to us. We're not Starfleet, are we?" Of course, he agreed with the man, and the regulations were based on his own recommendations, but Waters' attitude rubbed him up the wrong way. He'd never been that bad - had he?

"No. You're not Starfleet," said Waters. "Clearly."

Malcolm scowled at him but before he could make a clever retort, Gomez laid a light cautionary hand on his arm and turned to Archer.

"Well, Captain," said Gomez. "What do you think this craft is?"

"I can't say as yet, Mister Gomez. We'll need to transfer it to Enterprise. We'll revive the alien there and take a closer look."

Trip said to Malcolm, "I'd like to see those internal scans you took. Any results you were able to get."

"No problem. I can let you have a copy."

"Good. If that's all…" said Archer.

Bailey jumped in. "What about the bounty payment? What do we need to do for that?"

"I'm not sure it is merited-" started Archer, with a frown.

"It certainly is," cut in Gomez emphatically. "We could have gotten a lot more if we'd sold it to traders. That hull alone is worth a significant amount. This is exactly the type of case where a bounty payment is due."

"Well..." said Archer.

"Absolutely," put in Malcolm. "After all, it is supposed to encourage us to report such things. Even with the bounty, we will be worse off than if we kept quiet."

"Is that all you are concerned about?" said Archer, a note of contempt seeping into his voice. "Very well. I will discuss it with all of you. In the meantime, this area is out of bounds. Mister Waters, post guards here and arrange for the vessel to be removed to Enterprise."

"Aye, sir," said Waters smartly and moved away to use his communicator.

Not wanting to miss out on whatever riches might flow from Starfleet, Young said, "I also require payment for storing the craft. It has tied up a considerable part of the Facility resources. Shall we adjourn to my office?"

Archer nodded and walked out with Young, trailed by Bailey.

Gomez hung back. He said to Malcolm, "You coming, Pan?"

"Nah. I trust you to get the best deal for us all. I've got to give the readings I took to Commander Tucker."

"Okay," said Gomez and made his way after the others.

Trip and Malcolm grinned at each other, the strains of the meeting vanishing.

"Malcolm," said Trip. "Good to see you again!"

"You, too, Trip! Shall we adjourn to my quarters?" said Malcolm, echoing Young's pompous tone with a wicked grin. Then he continued, speaking normally, "I need to pick up something from there first."

"Absolutely! Lead the way." Trip looked sideways at Malcolm. "Pan?"

"Nickname," said Malcolm shortly.

"Wasn't he the Greek god... the one with goat's legs? Got drunk a lot?" Trip gazed pointedly at Malcolm's legs. "Anything you want to tell me?"

"Different origin," said Malcolm between gritted teeth. What a time for Trip to display a classical knowledge! He tried to put Trip off the scent. "Nothing very clever about it, I'm afraid. And it was his friend Bacchus who was the god of wine."

Trip's smile broadened, but he took the hint, for which Malcolm was thankful. He didn't know what was more embarrassing - the panda story or being thought a half-goat inebriate!

As they made their way through the Facility, Malcolm was painfully conscious of its shabby appearance. It was a warren, added to over the years with no attempt made to match the various sections. It was sound but decidedly scruffy. Malcolm saw Trip's sharp eyes taking in reams of loose wiring, bundled up under the ceiling, and the peeling paintwork. Someone had scrawled an obscenity over a station notice tacked to the wall – a comment on Admin by the looks of it.

"It's a little rough round the edges here," Malcolm found himself saying apologetically as they ducked through a low door and skirted welding gear lying unattended in the corridor.

"Uh huh," said Trip, not contradicting him.

"So - how is everybody? Hoshi, T'Pol... my men?"

Trip said, "Everyone's fine. Hoshi is really coming on. She's the makings of a fine officer."

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "Really? I'm pleased to hear that. I know she wasn't sure whether to take another tour with Enterprise."

"Yeah. She's doing okay. T'Pol is as well, last I heard. You did know she's not on Enterprise anymore, right?"

Malcolm stopped. "No! I didn't know that. What happened? Where is she?"

Trip sighed heavily. "She was transferred back to Earth to act as Starfleet liaison with the Vulcans."

"That seems a waste of her talents," said Malcolm, bemused.

"Yeah, it is. But Starfleet has decided it doesn't want aliens on its vessels. Phlox has gone as well. He's returned home."

Malcolm resumed his march. "I don't understand. That seems most short-sighted. I thought it had proved to be a good method to forge stronger alliances with alien races, even if it wasn't official."

Trip frowned and said, "I agree. But there's a lot of feeling against aliens on Earth. The Vulcan compound in San Francisco was attacked."

Malcolm hadn't heard about any of this. He didn't like the sound of it at all. It smacked of bigotry. He rubbed his forehead. Perhaps the miners weren't so out of step with the general consensus. He said, "And this is all because of the Xindi probe? Don't they realise the Xindi were lied to, that Degra sacrificed himself for humans? Hell, what about Shran! Without him, there would be no Earth!" He scowled at the floor.

"I know. But there's not been a lot of publicity about that. I know it was mentioned when we first returned, but now it's as if we did it all by ourselves. And Shran's part in it has been kept quiet. I dunno why. Something to do with the Vulcans."

Malcolm flinched at that mention of the classified aspects. He really should not have said anything at all about the Andorians to Bailey or the other miners. He said, "I wondered if it was so that the Vulcans weren't offended, but it sounds like no alien is truly welcome on Earth now." He gave Trip a searching look.

Trip said bleakly, "Yeah. That's the size of it."

Malcolm shook his head in dismay. "I'm glad I'm here then. I don't think I would like Earth at the moment. Has this got something to do with Admiral Forrest being moved sideways?"

"Yeah. It was felt by 'the powers that be' that he was too cosy with the various alien races. Y'know, 'if we'd been firmer with the Vulcans then the Xindi wouldn't have sent the probe'."

"That's ridiculous! 'Firmer with the Vulcans'! How, exactly! And how would that have stopped the Xindi?"

"It wouldn't have. Of course not. But there's a lack of will to see it any other way. Commodore Trent was trying to explain it to me, but I couldn't see what he meant."

"Who's Commodore Trent?"

Trip's mouth tightened. "He's an aide to Admiral Payne. You know Payne is in charge of Ops now, right? So Trent is a powerful guy. Best not to tick him off." He slowed his pace and lowered his voice. "Trent is on Enterprise. We picked him up a couple of days ago from another Starfleet vessel. We don't know what he wants, leastways, I don't. I don't think the Captain does either."

Malcolm said sarcastically, "Perhaps he's making sure you are all toeing the party line? That you've got no useful aliens hanging around."

"You might joke, but I think that's just what he is doing."

"Uggh," said Malcolm, giving a shudder. He glanced quickly at Trip. "I'm sorry about T'Pol. You must miss her."

"Yeah, I certainly do. A lot."

A light warning shiver along the deck, followed by a rumble and an immense shock. Malcolm was already braced against the final jerk when it came, but it threw Trip off-balance and he instinctively grabbed for a bulkhead to stay on his feet. As the deep boom rumbled through the Facility's structure, it left a vibration resonating under their boots.

"What's that! What's wrong?" exclaimed Trip.

Malcolm said reassuringly, "It's okay. It's only the refinery." He didn't blame Trip for his reactions. It was an alarming phenomenon if you didn't know the cause.

"Refinery?" replied Trip, surprised, and finally relinquishing his hold on the bulkhead. Malcolm noticed he kept his hand nearby - just in case.

"Yeah. Didn't you see it? It's on the far side. They carry out some pre-processing on certain high-grade ores. It cuts down on freight costs."

"Oh. I hadn't realised. I was in Engineering on approach." Trip started walking again. "Kinda… violent for refinery operations, isn't it?"

Malcolm gave him a quick half-smile. "Well, it's either the refinery or it's old Ashton attempting to dock manually. He's hopeless at it. One of these days he'll kill himself."

"And everyone else!" said Trip, with some concern.

Malcolm laughed. "Nah! The bulkheads are sealed."

"Uhh. Silly question, but if he's so bad at it, why doesn't he use auto to dock?"

Malcolm grunted. "Apparently it got damaged some time ago and he's never got round to fixing it."

Trip raised an eyebrow.

Malcolm said defensively, "Things are different here, Trip. It's not Starfleet but it's okay."

Trip bit his lip. "Umm," he said, hesitating to add more.

They carried on in silence for a while, then Trip said, "I don't know how long we'll be here. You're going to visit Enterprise before we leave, I hope? Catch up with the crew. I know the armoury team would like to see you. You could sample some of Chef's cooking - come over for a meal."

Malcolm made a noncommittal noise. He didn't think he would be welcome on board, but he didn't want to tell his friend that. He changed the subject. "What's that Lieutenant Waters like? Any good?"

"He's okay. He thinks he's better than he is, though. And he's got no respect for Engineering." Trip gave a wry grin. Malcolm grinned back, remembering his own tussles with Engineering. There were some constants, then.

They turned the final corner. Malcolm felt he needed to prepare Trip and said, "Ahh, here we are. My humble abode. And it is, Trip. Don't be too shocked. Remember - it's just a place to sleep!"

* * *

TBC 


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: see Chapter 1.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews. It's great to know that people are enjoying this story.

* * *

**Chapter 9**

Malcolm and Trip reached Malcolm's door, which slid open with an annoying squeak it had recently acquired. Trip stepped into the centre of the room and looked around with interest. His presence made the room seem very claustrophobic and tinier than ever.

Malcolm felt a flush of embarrassment at the state of his quarters. He'd forgotten he'd left things in such disarray. "Uh, Trip, you've caught me at a bad time. Normally it's tidier than this, but I've just got back from a campaign. Here, let me make some space." He hastily gathered up the dirty clothes and shoved them into a corner. The equipment was pushed against a wall.

"Oh, don't worry about that." Trip gave a dismissive wave. His eyes lit up as he saw the model on Malcolm's shelf, the only concession to any form of decoration. He ran a finger over the beautifully crafted lines of Enterprise. "Your team made a good job of this," he said.

Malcolm smiled as he considered the model. "It's perfect. It must have taken them ages to do, especially with that alloy. It's not the easiest to work." They had used an old torpedo casing as their starting material. Malcolm had been overwhelmed when they presented it to him at his leaving party.

Malcolm indicated the bunk. "Please, sit down, Trip. I'm afraid this room isn't set up for visitors. You can tell me more about what's been happening, how you are."

The two men sat next to each other, Malcolm making sure he took the side with the damp patch where his towel had been carelessly flung down.

Trip spoke first. "You're looking well, Malcolm. Very well, as a matter of fact."

"I feel good, Trip." Malcolm couldn't return the observation. Trip seemed worn. There were prominent dark circles under his eyes and he'd lost some of his old vivacity.

Trip shook his head. "I thought you were crazy, doing this, but it does seem to suit you."

"I wasn't sure, either, to begin with. But, yeah, I like this. I am my own boss. I'm in control. I'm actually sleeping properly for the first time in years."

"Aren't you bored, though?" probed Trip. "Don't you miss everything, all the excitement?"

"No, not really," replied Malcolm, adding, after a brief pause, "Well, of course, I miss the people, and the weapons, but then I've gained a lot, too."

Trip smiled at his friend. "You should write, you know," he chided.

Malcolm shifted guiltily. "I do try, but there's always something that needs doing."

"Yeah, I know. And I know it's not your strong suit."

"I wrote to Travis a few times," said Malcolm, suddenly remembering he hadn't been completely delinquent in that regard.

"But you didn't write me? I'm hurt!" joked Trip.

"I'm sorry. I'll try to do better in future," promised Malcolm, with a grin in answer to Trip's comical expression of scepticism.

Then, turning to more serious matters, Malcolm said, "I'm surprised to see you out here. Why send Enterprise all this way? I thought the intention was to carry out some more exploratory missions, in the opposite direction."

Trip sighed heavily. "There's been a change of plans. I don't know how much you get to hear, but there have been several incidents with the Klingons. Some quite bad. People got killed."

That shocked Malcolm. "I haven't been following the news much, as you've probably gathered by now. Everything else seems so remote from here. Were any of the casualties from Enterprise - people I know?"

Trip shook his head. "No. It's been mostly cargo ships and some of our scout vessels."

Malcolm ran his hands over his thighs, reminded of those people lost during the Xindi mission. So many lost. Friends and comrades.

Trip said, "There have been reports of Klingon ships near here, in the next sector. That's a long way from their Empire."

"Klingons, huh?" Malcolm processed that information. It made him uneasy. He didn't want to get caught up in anything involving Klingons. He knew Archer was a marked man by the Klingon Empire and he always wondered if the Klingons knew of his own part in Archer's escape from Rura Penthe. He had told himself they wouldn't care, but it niggled away at the back of his mind whenever they were mentioned.

Closely observing Malcolm's reactions, Trip said, "Starfleet is cranking up ship production. They're desperate for officers and men. Anyone on the Reserve List is being encouraged to enter active service again."

Malcolm knew where this was leading. "Trip..." he started, pulling a negative face.

"No, Malcolm. Hear me out. I know you were unhappy with a number of things in the Expanse, but we are on the verge of a full-scale war. We need experienced officers like you."

"War, Trip? Isn't that an exaggeration?"

"I only wish it were."

Malcolm dropped his head and fidgeted with his fingers, pressing them together so hard that his knuckles showed white. "It's not possible, Trip," he murmured. "I can't serve under Captain Archer again."

Trip gave a soft snort. "I think you'd find yourself First Officer on another ship, and in line for swift promotion to your own command."

Malcolm gave a hollow laugh. "With my luck, I'd probably find myself on the Shenandoah under Duvall!"

Trip laughed at that idea. "I see Travis kept you informed!"

"Oh, he was quite discreet about it, but reading between the lines, that ship is an absolute shambles!" Malcolm shook his head in dismay.

Trip said intently, "That is why you are needed, Malcolm. Seriously. You would sort them out, no problem. I don't know what it is between you and Captain Archer, but I'm sure you wouldn't be forced to serve on Enterprise if you didn't want to."

"You're right. I wouldn't be posted to Enterprise. Captain Archer would make sure of that. There's more to it than... It's complicated." Malcolm lapsed into silence. He hadn't explained to anyone what his full reasons had been for resigning. He chewed at his lip as he debated how much to tell Trip. Pressing the nail of his left index finger hard into the ball of his thumb, he drew it across again and again.

Trip watched him curiously. "C'mon. You've got to explain what's going on here, Malcolm."

Malcolm flashed him an uncertain glance.

"I won't say anything to anyone else," assured Trip. "Please."

Malcolm sighed. He locked his gaze on the floor - this was not easy. Should he tell Trip? It would stop him pressing the subject. And Trip was the closest friend Malcolm had ever had. Didn't he deserve to know? It wasn't that big a secret, really. But, then, Trip was also a friend of Archer's.

"Malcolm. We're friends, aren't we?"

Malcolm nodded without looking up at Trip.

"Well then..." pursued Trip.

"Okay." Malcolm paused to gather his thoughts. Without taking his eyes off that worn spot on the floor, he began to explain what had happened. "As you pointed out, there were a number of things which disturbed me about our mission in the Expanse. I can be pragmatic, though. I'm not totally naive. After all, we had the lives of billions resting on our success. We returned to Earth, the weapon destroyed..."

----------------------

The hectic round of welcoming and celebration had begun to ease. The Enterprise crew had been feted everywhere they went. There were events all over the globe and the entire crew found themselves pressed into service, particularly the senior officers. Malcolm had found it a real trial. He had had to represent Enterprise on his own at several presentations and he had not enjoyed it one little bit.

He got through the short speech he'd given on these occasions by the expedient of fixing his eyes on the back of the room and pretending he was talking to his men in the Armoury. He had almost wished to be facing a Xindi attack. Almost, but then, speeches and presentations didn't lead to death and terrible injuries, pain and destruction. He was surprised to find his previous terror of public speaking had been replaced by mere discomfort, but, he reflected, that was natural. He had finally grown up. His father had seen it on Malcolm's brief first visit home. Seen it and understood. He had given Malcolm his hand, and when they locked eyes Malcolm had seen that understanding and sympathy. But he couldn't accept it.

He was dishonoured – a fraud.

That was what actually disturbed Malcolm. Here he was, hailed as a hero, but he had had to compromise his ideals, carry out orders he thought he would never be given, not in Starfleet, and not only that, he had carried them out willingly.

The appreciative masses of Earth's population didn't know about that... didn't want to know. They were just happy that Earth was saved, and gave no thought to the cost or what was done in its name.

Starfleet had swung its propaganda machine into action. Any hint of some of the less savoury aspects of the mission was swiftly suppressed before anyone could grab hold of it. And in any case, no one wanted their illusions shattered.

Now Malcolm was back in San Francisco, starting the gruelling debriefing process. He was grilled on everything, often by high-ranking officers. At the back of his mind was the decision he had made, months ago. He had wavered since then. Pragmatism warring with idealism. Did he accept that what had to be done, needed to be done? Or did he cut loose?

Then he had an unmistakable shove in one direction.

It had been a Tuesday lunchtime, in late June. He had spent all morning with Commander Williams and several of his staff, talking through some of the modifications and running repairs he had made to the weapons sensor array during their mission. He had actually enjoyed this for once. There were no tricky questions of interpretation to face or judgements to make. It had been a simple task of stepping through schematics and discussing circuits. No moral compass required.

The mess hall had been moderately busy. Malcolm grabbed a tray with various items on it and made for a free table, hoping to avoid anyone who might wish to talk to him. As he sat down, he had seen a group of officers sweep through into the senior dining room, and in the midst of them was Captain Archer, laughing and clearly in good heart. For some reason, that had bothered Malcolm. It shouldn't have done - shouldn't he be glad that the Captain was at last regaining some of his former good humour? He supposed he felt like that because his own uncertainty had been growing by the day, and he was finding himself becoming ever more dispirited. There was one matter in particular, which nagged at him, kept him awake at night. He had made some enquiries but had been rebuffed and a gentle suggestion made that he drop the matter. When he had persisted, the Rear Admiral, no less, had called him into his office and ordered Malcolm to desist.

However, Malcolm thought, he could talk to Archer about it. It was his last chance to find out what was being done.

Malcolm drew out his lunch, finishing off with a whole jug of coffee. Eventually, Archer re-appeared from the senior dining room. Malcolm weaved across the mess and spoke to him.

"Captain, may I have a word?"

Archer looked startled. Malcolm had seen virtually nothing of him since their return, and he supposed Archer had almost forgotten his existence, taken up as he was with his own review processes and re-fitting of Enterprise.

Archer gave a quick smile. "Sure, Malcolm. What is it?"

"Not here, sir. It would be better to go somewhere more private."

Archer studied Malcolm's serious face. He turned to his companions. "You go on. I'll join you in a minute." Then he led Malcolm to a deserted office near an assembly hall.

Archer waved Malcolm in and closed the door behind him. He indicated one of the seats to the side of a desk, taking another for himself. Malcolm hesitated only for a moment before sitting down. It would be better to keep this fairly informal.

"Well, Malcolm. How are you? Managing okay with all these debriefings." Archer's smile was genuine.

Malcolm gave a quick half-smile in return, but he had to get to the point. Without ceremony, he started in. "Captain. I need to know. What is being done about those aliens we acquired the warp coil from?"

"Warp coil?" puzzled Archer.

Malcolm gazed at him in astonishment. How could Archer not know what he was talking about?

Archer carried on smoothly, as if his previous falter had not happened, "The alien warp coil that got us to Degra's meeting in time. What about it, Malcolm?"

"Not the coil, sir. The aliens we took it from." Malcolm felt a surge of anger flood through him at Archer's bland expression. He added, forcefully, "The aliens we stole it from."

"Now wait, Malcolm. You know as well as I do, we had no choice in the matter. If we hadn't done what we did, we wouldn't be sitting here now. Earth wouldn't be here now!"

Malcolm impatiently shook his head. He snapped out, "I know, sir. That's not what I meant."

"Then what, Lieutenant?" Archer's tone hardened.

Malcolm glared at Archer. He wanted to have a proper discussion, and now Archer was dragging rank into the equation. Deciding to ignore Archer's implied warning, he said, "What is being done to help those people? After all, we were responsible for stranding them in the Expanse. We should be helping them to return home."

Archer met Malcolm's intent gaze, then sighed and glanced away, giving Malcolm a moment's hope.

When Archer looked back, he had a regretful smile. He said reasonably, with a slight shrug, "Well, the Expanse doesn't exist anymore, so they won't be in danger from any anomalies."

Malcolm noticed Archer had failed to address the possibility of rescue. "But, Captain, they were three years from home when we left them. Left them with a useless warp engine. We should go back to help them."

"It would take months to get back to where they were. Then how would we find them? It's too difficult, Malcolm." The declaration had an air of finality.

Malcolm exploded. "Too difficult! Finding the weapon was 'difficult' but we did it. If we have the will, we can do it. We can at least try to do it."

"It would take months-" repeated Archer.

Malcolm interrupted, "Months? What's months against years? Anyway, we could ask the Xindi to get us there, using their vortex technique."

Archer frowned. "The Xindi are... preoccupied... with their own affairs at present, and it wouldn't be easy to get a message to them in any case."

Malcolm responded, his voice getting more strident with each word, "But we should at least try! We owe them at least that. We committed an act of piracy against them!"

Archer gazed at him with an unreadable expression but said nothing. Malcolm grunted in annoyance and jumped to his feet. He began to pace, running a nervous hand through his hair. He couldn't believe the Captain was being so complacent, so callous.

"Sir, what if we were the ones in that position? Wouldn't you want someone to come get us?"

"Well, of course-"

"Then I don't understand. What's the problem?"

"We don't know their home world, have any idea where it is located-"

"We can ask! How did we find the weapon? God! I don't believe I am hearing this from you!" shouted Malcolm, flinging his arms down in frustration. "I thought you - of all people - would want to do something-"

"Lieutenant! That is enough!" Archer stood and glared at Malcolm, breathing hard.

Malcolm had to stop his relentless striding to avoid crashing into him. He scowled at Archer in disgust, then turned his face away. He couldn't bear to look at him any more.

Archer mastered his breathing and his temper. He lowered his voice, and said, struggling to find a placatory tone, "Malcolm, Starfleet has already discussed this matter at the highest level. We do not have a ship available. Enterprise is in no fit shape and we need Columbia here, to defend Earth. It has been decided, reluctantly, not to attempt a rescue. I'm sorry, but there it is."

Malcolm stared at him incredulously. He said softly, "I can't believe you agree with that."

"Well, Malcolm, as a matter of fact, I do. I have considered all the facts and stand one hundred per cent by that decision."

Malcolm didn't care any more what he said to Archer. Putting as much contempt as he could into his words, he spat out, "Sir, with all due respect, that is despicable. We're supposed to be heroes. I see no heroes here, only moral bankruptcy!"

Archer took a threatening step towards him. "Lieutenant! That is quite enough! I have listened to what you have to say and you have my answer. I know you have already brought this up with other senior officers and that you have been ordered to drop the matter. Because of your exemplary service, I will not report this breach of orders or your insubordinate attitude, but I expect you to comply fully with your orders from now on and leave this matter be. Do you understand?"

Malcolm glared at him, astonished by the feeling of hatred that welled up within him. He wanted to call the Captain all the names under the sun, give him a good kicking and leave him for dead. Only his immense self-control stopped him. Instead, somehow, he eventually choked out a "Yes, sir."

The 'sir' was delivered as an insult, but Archer chose to ignore that. He gave an abrupt nod and strode out of the room. Malcolm stared after him numbly, knowing his decision was made. His life had changed irrevocably. He had to follow his ideals, however tarnished they had become.

Malcolm's anger didn't reduce over time. If anything, it had grown as he realised that the aliens would never receive any aid from Earth. There was nothing else he could do about it. Trip and Travis knew something was wrong and tried to draw it out of him, but he kept quiet about the matter, the particulars anyway. There was no point, was there? They couldn't do anything, either. They knew he was unhappy about the piracy, but so were they. They didn't know about his confrontation with Archer.

Malcolm's anger seethed and ate at him. He had been willing to follow the Captain anywhere, do anything for him, give his life for him without question. But now... he could not serve under someone so contemptible, so dishonourable, or in an organisation he had lost faith in.

The Captain had received his resignation without comment.

On the occasions when they met subsequently, Archer had been polite but distant. That had extended to Malcolm's surprise leaving party. If Archer's bland and brief speech had perplexed the others, it was soon forgotten. Archer had stayed the minimum time consistent with propriety and then left, to Malcolm's relief. It had reaffirmed Malcolm's belief that he was doing the only thing he could.

----------------------

Malcolm finished speaking, still gazing down at the floor. "So, now you know, Trip, why it is impossible for me to return. I have no respect for the Captain or for Starfleet. I would go as far as to say I despise them." He glanced at Trip, noting his shaken reaction.

"I hadn't even thought about trying to find those aliens again," confessed Trip. He had grown pale. "What does that make me?"

Malcolm wanted to ease his friend's dismay, but could only manage a sad smile. He had pushed all those thoughts far away, in the recesses of his mind. Dragging them out again had brought uncomfortably strong emotions surging forth. "I know the Captain is your friend, Trip. But his attitude..."

Rubbing his hand over his jaw, Trip murmured, "As far as I know, they haven't sent anyone to search for those aliens. In the current climate, I don't think that will top the agenda either."

"Well it should, Trip! It is appalling. Bad enough that we were pirates... _Pirates_, Trip. But to do nothing... to not even attempt to mitigate what we inflicted on them. Totally and unjustifiably immoral." Malcolm's mouth twisted in disgust as he growled, "All my life, I've hated pirates with a vengeance. There's nothing romantic about them. Plundering, violent, cowardly common criminals." He clasped his hands behind his neck and dropped his head. Voice muffled, he said, "I'm sorry, Trip. I should have kept this to myself."

"Don't be. I asked you to talk to me. And you're right, absolutely right. I'll try to see what pressure I can bring."

"It's no use, Trip. You'll just damage your career. I tried everyone, even went as high as some admirals."

"Still..."

"Please. Don't say anything. It won't do any good. It's too late now anyway."

"But..."

"I mean it. I wouldn't have told you this if I thought you'd get involved as well. There really is no point. Honestly." Malcolm ran his fingers over his forehead. He was regretting telling Trip. He didn't want his friend to go through the guilt he had already put on himself. That would benefit no one. He should have kept his big mouth shut.

He cast a worried glance at Trip who still seemed stunned. "Please, Trip. Promise me."

Trip worked his mouth, frowning. "Okay," he agreed eventually. "But if I can do something, without antagonising anybody, I will. Is that okay?"

Malcolm nodded. "Deal," he said, hoping Trip would stick to it.

"Deal," said Trip. "Now, we'd better look at those scans you took of the ship. I have to get back soon."

"Of course." Malcolm stood, PADDs in hand. "They're in my workroom."

----------------------

Malcolm was quite proud of his workroom - no need to apologise to Trip for this. As Malcolm retrieved the data chips of the scan results, he explained its layout to Trip. "The area over there is devoted to the forcefield project. I've been making good progress with that."

Trip appeared eager to investigate the forcefield emitter array, but Malcolm wanted to show him some of his other research first. He faced about and gestured at the specially strengthened section. "I carry out testing - of explosives, that is - in this area."

"Explosive testing?" said Trip, startled enough to wrench his attention from the forcefield project. "Do they let you do that here? The actual testing, I mean."

Malcolm grinned. "Yeah. As long as I don't damage the station, no one worries what I do. No piddling regs to worry about, either! Only those I agree with. I've reinforced this area, so it's well contained, and use a small forcefield around the test site, as well - if I think it's needed."

"No problems, then?"

"No. Nothing significant," said Malcolm, busily selecting the most informative results for Trip's scrutiny. "Here we are - look at this."

A large wall screen flickered into life as Malcolm pulled up some data for display. His fingers skipped across the controls to highlight particular points. "This shows yield against composition, varying composition, ignition point, detonation mode and so forth." He flipped to another data set. "This is work I've been doing on alien explosives. Some very interesting results. Very interesting. Ahh. This one might appeal to you. Trellium D in liquid form." He gave Trip a rueful grin. "I admit that has caused some problems, but I've still got a few more things to try."

"Umm," said Trip, eyeing a blackened patch on the floor.

"Oh, yes. And I've been doing a lot on shaped charges - they can be used to control detonation fronts, for example - and on multiple fronts." Malcolm displayed some examples. "This is an ideal test environment. I often make use of the modelling in my mining work, and that gives me large-scale results and very useful feedback. This one, for instance." He gazed in rapt appreciation at the satisfying graphical representation. That particular firing had been one of his major triumphs.

Trip grinned at his friend. "It's good to see you so enthusiastic again."

Malcolm blinked in surprise at Trip. He hadn't consciously noticed his change in attitude, but Trip was right. The mental weariness that had dogged him throughout their mission in the Expanse and after had diminished.

"Thanks for showing me all that," said Trip, fixing his attention again on the forcefield equipment set up on the other side of the workroom. He strode across to get a closer look at it. "Now this does look interesting."

Malcolm noted the implication that perhaps the explosives research wasn't interesting, but let it ride. After all, warp theory was necessary but dull in his eyes. Each to his own.

Anyway, it would be intriguing to see what Trip made of the forcefield work. Malcolm was pleased to at last have someone to talk to who would understand its basis. The only others with whom he could discuss it were based on Earth in Starfleet Research Division, but he hadn't had much contact with them recently.

Joining Trip, Malcolm said, "As I mentioned, this is some work I've been doing on developing my forcefield theory. Obviously, practical tests are limited because I don't have sufficient power available for very large coverage, but Mark Ginnett at Starfleet Development has kindly set up some experimental apparatus for me. It's been most encouraging." He looked approvingly at his distributed emitter array.

"I read your published paper," commented Trip, enthralled by the complex set-up.

"Did you?" said Malcolm, pleased. "What did you think of it?"

"Well," drawled Trip, straightening up and turning a shrewd eye on his friend. "I think, reading between the lines, you got a lot further than you let on."

Malcolm's eyes danced with merriment. He crossed his arms. "Go on, then," he challenged. "Tell me!"

"It seems that, theoretically, it should be possible to expand a forcefield sufficiently to, I dunno, encompass a starship!"

"I wondered if anyone would spot that! Yes, I didn't want to give too much away, obviously. It could be sensitive information. I am convinced that this work could be built on to give us energy shielding for ships. It should be more resilient than hull plating because it could be made re-configurable. It'd be more effective, too." Malcolm looked for Trip's reaction. "We've seen alien races with this technology, so we know it is possible."

Trip gave a thoughtful nod of agreement. "Uh huh. I saw the direction you were going in and I think you're onto something. Aren't Starfleet interested in getting their hands on this? You have told them, I hope."

"Of course I have. They have some of my early work, but I want to settle some theory issues before this is in a state to pass over." Malcolm lost his good humour. "Actually, I have run into a problem there." He chewed at his lower lip.

Trip went on alert. "What kind of problem?"

Malcolm breathed heavily. "I've said they can have the results when I'm ready and for a fee. Not a lot, but something to pay for my time and expenses. They don't want to pay it - well, not the full amount." He saw Trip looking askance at that. "Trip, you have to realise, money is important outside Starfleet. Especially out here. I have plans but I need to be able to finance them."

"I guess," said Trip, unconvinced.

Malcolm sighed again. "The other thing is, apparently the results alone aren't good enough. They're insisting that I go to work for them, either in Starfleet or as a civilian."

"Return to Earth? Why not? That could be good, and if you're a civilian you can do what you want, within reason."

Malcolm shook his head. "I know this might be difficult to believe, but I like it here, with all its faults. I really like it. And I do not want to go back to Earth, working on a single project that will take up all my efforts."

"I guess I can understand that," acknowledged Trip. "But won't you be needed to progress the work?"

"No. There are plenty of capable people who can take this on and develop it. It is not necessary for me to be fully involved by any means." That wasn't false modesty; it was the truth.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"No. No doubt Starfleet brass will eventually get it through their collective thick skulls that I mean what I say and we will come to an understanding. It is annoying, though."

"Yeah."

Trip's communicator buzzed. "Tucker," he answered.

_"Commander,"_ came Archer's voice. _"I need to see you in the Command Centre."_

"Understood. I'll be there momentarily. Tucker out." Trip flipped the device shut and put it in a pocket. "Sorry, Malcolm. Gotta go. We'll speak again before we leave. I'd like to see a demo of this forcefield apparatus, too."

"I'm sure I can manage that. Come on. I'll show you back to the docking port."

Reaching their destination, Trip tried to persuade Malcolm to visit him on Enterprise but Malcolm was adamantly opposed to it. "But I'd love to see Hoshi and the others, if they've time to visit."

"I doubt that'll be possible, but I'll see," said Trip. "Let me know if you change your mind."

Malcolm nodded and watched his friend return back to the world of a starship officer. He sighed, not regretting his choice in life, but desperately missing the comradeship and feeling of family. But from what Trip had told him, things were uncomfortable in Starfleet right now. He didn't like the sound of this Commodore Trent. What did he want with Enterprise?

A familiar but long-absent sensation prickled at him. He didn't ignore that feeling. He never did. Most times it turned out to be of no consequence, but when it didn't, it made all the difference.

Malcolm returned to his quarters deep in thought.

* * *

TBC 


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: see Chapter 1.

A/N: Thanks for the amazing reviews for the last chapter. I only hope I can continue to hold your interest as the story progresses. We shall see!

* * *

**Chapter 10**

An insistent buzzing pierced through Malcolm's fitful sleep to rouse him.

"For goodness sake," he muttered, as the visitor kept his or her finger on the doorbell. He stumbled the few steps to the door, vigorously rubbing his hands over his face, and stabbed the video display button. Bloody Lieutenant Waters! What the hell did he want?

Malcolm opened the door. "Yes?"

"Mister Reed. Would you come with us, please?" Waters' expression was inscrutable.

Malcolm wondered why he was using the royal 'we', and then saw another man behind him, a big lad. He futilely rubbed at his eyes again, trying to get his brain into gear. What was all this about? He squinted at Waters. "Is there a problem with the alien ship?"

"The Captain requests that you come on board Enterprise."

Malcolm noted that the lieutenant was armed. How had he managed to persuade Archer to allow that? Even with all the 'excitement' they had endured in the Expanse, Archer had been adamant that weapons were not to be worn except in what he personally deemed to be 'at risk' situations, and Archer's judgement was woeful at times.

"Mister Reed?"

"Uh, okay. Give me a couple of minutes to get changed and visit the bathroom, will you? I've just woken up." Malcolm saw a hint of a smirk at that news. The git! Pleased to have bothered his illustrious predecessor, was he?

Waters replied, "Certainly. A couple of minutes it is. We'll wait in the corridor."

Malcolm collected his wash kit and sauntered down to the bathroom, conscious of two pairs of eyes on him. He took the minimum time but made sure he was neat and well-shaved. Whatever the reason for this unexpected turn of events, he was determined not to put himself at an unnecessary disadvantage.

Returning to his quarters, Malcolm pulled on a T-shirt and his light grey trousers. As he fastened his belt, that warning frisson danced up his spine, just like the day before.

An invitation to Enterprise, and from Archer? There was something odd about this early morning request. Enterprise was scheduled to leave later that day, after retrieving the alien ship and its passenger, downloading local data on the phenomenon, and taking a few readings of their own. Why had the Captain suddenly decided he wanted to meet with him?

Making a quick decision, Malcolm slid his remote into his right trouser pocket, regretting that his legal EM 33's were in the Admin Office and his highly illegal home-built phase pistols in his workroom. That had been a mistake. Sloppy, he rebuked himself. He should keep one here, too, in future. If he kept the power pack separate and shielded, it shouldn't show up on any sweeps. He consoled himself that he was only going to be visiting his old ship, and most likely seeing more old friends. It wasn't as if he were about to enter some disreputable alien marketplace or the like.

Satisfied that no one could find fault with his turn out, Malcolm opened the door, slipping on his loose-fitting jacket. "Gentlemen," he said. "After you."

"No, after you," said Waters, indicating the way.

Malcolm held his gaze for a moment, then smiled and briskly led the party towards the docking port, ignoring his stomach's impatient demands.

----------------------

Stepping onto Enterprise's deck for the first time in over a year was a strange experience. Malcolm hesitated, taking in the familiar corridors and control panels. It was as if his past and his present had collided - two distinct phases combining together in an unsettling mix. At first glance, nothing had changed. It was as if time had stopped here when he had left, waiting for him to return, and meanwhile his own life had continued with its many new experiences. And the once welcoming feeling of 'home' was absent, replaced by one of subtle disquiet. Perhaps that had something to do with this being Archer's domain?

But, of course, there had been changes. For a start, there was Waters standing next to him, and Malcolm didn't recognise the security man stationed at the port. Enterprise's crew complement had changed considerably since the mission to the Expanse and Malcolm hadn't been involved in the selection processes.

Malcolm nodded to the guard and automatically drew himself into a straighter bearing. "Where are we going?" he asked Waters, hoping he hadn't noticed his brief bout of introspection.

"The office next to the command centre. You remember the way?"

"Yes," said Malcolm, a touch disappointed that they weren't to be in the Captain's ready room. He wanted to see the bridge again. Perhaps he could have a visit there after the meeting, if it was a civilised one. No reason why it shouldn't be. Malcolm and Archer both knew how the land lay and were sensible people. No need to be other than polite to one another. The time for confrontation was long gone.

Shepherded along by Waters and his crewman, Malcolm set off to the meeting room. He was struck by the tidy and clean state of the ship, and by the smart appearance of the crew they passed. The last time he had been on board, Enterprise had been in the midst of repairs and re-fitting, and still showing signs of battle damage. Malcolm saw two people that he knew and exchanged quick greetings as they passed. He also managed to get a couple of glimpses through open doors at other areas of the ship. Everything seemed to be in good order.

As Malcolm got closer to his destination, an unaccountable apprehension rose in him. He really had not expected to be welcome on board and this invitation was a puzzle. Surely, Enterprise had all the information he could give them concerning that alien vessel?

When they arrived at the meeting room, Malcolm and Waters entered, while the security crewman remained outside. The room was simply furnished with a table and some chairs, and the wall display screens were inactive. A single chair was placed on the side of the table nearest Malcolm. Behind the table sat Archer and a grey-haired, medium-built man in a commodore's uniform, which carried a Headquarters logo on the sleeve. That must be Trent, thought Malcolm, remembering what Trip had said about him. Trent had an assured air, as if he were very confident in his position - not surprising if he was closely associated with the current Head of Ops. Malcolm could already see why Trip's unease about Trent might be merited. He decided to treat Trent with proper caution but was determined not to be intimidated. After all, he was not constrained by Starfleet anymore, was he? He was his own man.

Malcolm strode confidently into the centre of the room as Captain Archer and the commodore stood up.

"Mister Reed," said Archer. "Thank you for coming. May I introduce Commodore Trent?"

Malcolm shook hands with the commodore, noting his firm grip and intense blue eyes. Malcolm and Archer greeted each other by brief nods and they all took their seats, Malcolm observing that Waters remained standing behind him, near the door.

Maintaining, with an effort, an open and relaxed posture, Malcolm kept his expression neutral, wondering where this was going to lead. Trent smiled but it was not a genuine gesture. Malcolm could see lines on his face betraying an apparently customary hard facade. Archer kept his face blank, but Malcolm could read him - he'd had plenty of practice, after all. Archer's eyes had an unsettled, even haunted, air about them.

Trent took the initiative, his voice smooth and well-modulated. "Thank you for giving us the scan results you took of the alien craft. They're proving to be interesting." He exposed his teeth rather than smiling.

Malcolm gave a grunt of acknowledgement, not convinced. His scans showed nothing more than Enterprise would be able to achieve in less than half an hour. He knew they had not helped at all. He saw Archer's slight tensing. So, he knew that as well, did he?

Trent carried on, cocking his head towards Archer, "Terms have been agreed on the bounty payable, I understand."

Archer replied, "Yes. We were able to reach an acceptable figure." He didn't take his eyes off Malcolm.

The silence stretched. Trent remained impassive but Archer showed subtle signs of unease. Malcolm was content to let this carry on. It didn't worry him in the least.

Archer broke first. "I understand you've been doing research, Malcolm?"

Malcolm's hackles rose at this casual use of his first name by Archer, but he tried to keep his annoyance hidden. "Yes. That's right." Ahh. So that's what this was about, was it?

Trent steepled his fingers on the desk. "I've read your research paper," he said.

Malcolm gave a soft snort. "Really? What did you think about it?"

"Impressive. Or so I'm told. It's not my field." Trent neatly side-stepped the potential trap.

"What is your field, Commodore?" said Malcolm, curiously.

"Let us say... I'm a facilitator."

"That doesn't sound like a Starfleet career path."

Trent raised an eyebrow. "I guess not, but it should be. It's a useful profession. For example, it would be useful for Starfleet to have access to your work on forcefields. I would like to facilitate that."

Malcolm lifted a hand. "Starfleet can have access to it. I've already offered it to them."

"At a price," said Trent.

"Yes. A very fair price, too."

"That's not what I've been told." Trent fixed Malcolm with a piercing stare.

Stung, Malcolm looked away briefly to regain his poise, and then met Trent's gaze again. He said tightly, "Is this a negotiation? Is that why I've been asked here? Do you have authority to come to a settlement?"

"Yes. And no. There are certain conditions that must be met."

Malcolm said dryly, "Ahh. I wonder what they might be."

"As part of the deal, Starfleet requires that you join the project team."

Malcolm rolled his eyes in exasperation. "This is old stuff, Commodore. I've already responded to this. And the answer is no."

Archer said, "I've seen the terms, Malcolm. It's a good package, and you'll be able to return to Earth."

"Well, Jon," Malcolm rapped out, having the satisfaction of seeing Archer taken aback by this unaccustomed familiarity, "I'm able to return to Earth now, if I want to. However, I don't want to. I've made this abundantly clear to them. I've also pointed out that I am not essential to taking this project forward."

Malcolm began to rise. This was a complete waste of time. "If that's all, good day, gentlemen."

Trent gestured to him to retake his seat. "There is more, Mister Reed. Please sit down."

Malcolm paused then subsided. He wouldn't be tempted but he might as well hear what else they had on the table. "Go on."

"There are security issues involved," said Trent, drawing his brows together to emphasis the gravity of his statement.

"Possibly," acknowledged Malcolm. "But I've been careful, and there was nothing of a potentially confidential nature in my paper."

"I appreciate that you've been discreet. However, others haven't been."

"What do you mean?" said Malcolm.

Trent leaned toward him. "I'm sorry to tell you, but there's been a leak."

Malcolm frowned as he tried to make sense of these cryptic remarks.

Archer said urgently, "We believe you are in danger. The Klingons have obtained information that you are key to this work and that you are located in this region."

That put a new complexion on matters. On a Klingon wish list, was he? But who would have given away his location? Malcolm's mind raced through the implications. He remembered Trip's comment about Klingon activity in the next sector. It had perturbed him when he believed it to be of a general nature. To think that it might be activity directed personally against him was alarming. He should lie low... Set a false trail away from the Facility. He could return later. There was that jaunt with Bailey to come. He'd bring it forward...

"Mister Reed?" Trent's voice penetrated his rapid calculations and planning.

"Yes?"

"We can offer you immediate passage back to Earth."

"No," replied Malcolm, without hesitation. "That won't be necessary. I can look after myself."

"We beg to differ. You haven't had any experience with Klingons lately. They've become very dangerous."

"I'll be okay," insisted Malcolm. "Thank you for telling me. I appreciate it. Now I'd better go and prepare."

"I don't think you understand." Trent's voice was emphatic. "Starfleet cannot permit you to fall into Klingon hands. They cannot be allowed to get the benefit of your work. Especially since you won't give it to Starfleet."

Malcolm stared at him, wide-eyed. "What the hell does that mean?" he said heatedly. "I'm no traitor."

Archer said soothingly, "No one is suggesting that you are. But the Klingons could be very persuasive at extracting that information from you."

Trent added nastily, "And then spitting out the pieces. We simply can't permit it."

"So you said!" exploded Malcolm. "Look! I can stay clear of them. I know I can."

Trent shook his head. "It's decided, I'm afraid. You are returning to Earth."

Malcolm stared at the wall between and behind the two officers as he considered the commodore's comment. Then he returned to Archer, who squirmed and wouldn't meet his hard eyes. Trent, in contrast, was adamant and confident. He had no difficulty in maintaining his gaze.

Malcolm bowed his head and shifted in his seat. He dug his hands deep into his trouser pockets. "I don't know," he muttered, as if considering Trent's proposal. Then he gave a quick grin and looked up. "Nope. Sorry. I'm staying here."

"You don't have the choice," declared Trent. He smiled coldly. "While we've been talking, your clothing and other things have already been transferred from the Mining Facility to guest quarters on Enterprise. We will be bringing your equipment over in due course."

Malcolm's jaw dropped. This was unreal! Were they proposing to abduct him? "I beg your pardon?" he rasped, cold fury driving him. "Who the hell do you think you are? I know my rights."

Trent laughed quietly, sending a conspiratorial glance in Archer's direction. Archer had the grace to look embarrassed but didn't intervene or contradict Trent. So, they were in this together, were they?

Filled with rage, Malcolm glared at the two Starfleet officers. But there was something he could do, at least. He brought his left hand up to rub at his temple. Simultaneously, he surreptitiously activated the remote device in his right pocket, thankful he had had the foresight to bring it. Steal his equipment, would they? Let them try!

Malcolm kept a tight rein on his anger, using it to his advantage, or so he hoped. He said emphatically, his eyes narrowed to mere slits, "This is wholly illegal. I will sue for wrongful imprisonment. There is no law that can compel me to go with you. Even if I were on Earth, you couldn't do this, and out here Earth and Earth organisations have no jurisdiction." He leaned forwards, glowering at Trent and Archer. "I will sue both of you personally and Starfleet. Make an example of you. Show the public exactly what sort of perverted organisation Starfleet has become."

Archer froze, then faced Trent and shrugged. Malcolm snarled in satisfaction. He had won. They hadn't a leg to stand on.

Trent shook his head in mock sorrow. "I'm sorry you aren't being reasonable, Mister Reed. It would be much more pleasant for you, but you leave me no choice. There is another route I can take - one that I had hoped to avoid. I had hoped you would understand and co-operate when you had the facts, like any rational person would. However..."

Trent reached into his pocket. He deposited a PADD onto the desk. "I came prepared." He tapped at the PADD then held it up to show writing scrolling over the display. It was too far from Malcolm for him to read it.

Archer sat motionless with a strange expression on his face.

Trent gave a mirthless laugh. "You've already received this, Mister Reed. It's Starfleet Regulation 6083/54, short title 'Regulations Governing Status'. It was promulgated some time ago. Don't tell me you've not read it?"

Malcolm tried to place the reference - difficult in his agitated state – but it meant nothing to him.

Archer said, bewildered, "Doesn't that deal with officers and other ranks returning to active service from reserve status?"

"Yes, Captain. It does."

Malcolm said, "I don't understand. What's that got to do with me?"

"Have you read it?" asked Trent.

"I glanced at it, but it wasn't relevant, so I filed it." With all the other junk he got from Starfleet.

"Why isn't it relevant?" asked Trent, with a lift of one eyebrow.

"I don't intend to return to active service." Malcolm thought that was bloody obvious.

"Yes. I can see that most of this regulation would not be applicable in that event. But let us turn to the miscellaneous provisions of section 481. More specifically, paragraph 23.1(f) of that section." Trent sat back and cleared his throat. In a flat tone, he read out, "Starfleet may authorise transfer of any person from reserve status to active status in exceptional circumstances where necessary to preserve the security of Starfleet or Earth, such authority vesting in Head of Operations."

Malcolm froze. His insides twisted and did somersaults. Surely he couldn't mean...?

Archer said, "I don't understand. That sounds like-"

Trent interrupted him. "Yes, Captain. This provision grants authority to Admiral Payne to transfer anyone to active status in exceptional circumstances. These are exceptional circumstances."

Unable to move or speak, Malcolm could only watch as Trent pulled out another PADD.

Trent brandished the PADD and said, "This is the Admiral's order under that regulation. With immediate effect, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed is transferred back onto the active list. Welcome back to Starfleet, Lieutenant." He laughed triumphantly.

Malcolm was galvanised by the sound. He shot forward from his seat and launched himself at Trent, burying his head in Trent's midriff. His momentum carried him onwards, taking Trent and his chair crashing to the ground. Malcolm put everything he could into his assault, working to inflict maximum harm.

A flash enveloped him and all went dark.

* * *

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: see Chapter 1.

A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews. They are a great boost! This is a good time to thank my beta reader, Rusty Armour, once more for all her considerable efforts. I have revised this since she looked at the story, so I assume full responsibility for any errors or typos.

* * *

**Chapter 11 **

The unforgiving bright light prodded Malcolm into consciousness. He was lying on his back, a dull but intense pain radiating from some point between his shoulders. It was an unmistakable sensation. He had been blasted by a phase pistol at close quarters.

Malcolm squinted through half-shut lids at his surroundings and was not in the least surprised to find he'd been thrown in the brig. An ill-advised arm movement to shield his eyes aggravated the tender area of his back. He let out an involuntary groan, closely followed by several choice swearwords.

It was Waters who had stunned him, of course. He had been stationed behind him, hadn't he? Waters had missed Malcolm's first move against Trent and then they'd been on the floor. Waters would have jumped over the table to get at Malcolm, and then been mere centimetres away when he had had a clear shot. Malcolm didn't know whether to be pleased that Waters had been caught off-guard - it meant he had been able to get some telling blows in against Trent - or annoyed because it was that much more painful being shot at almost point blank range.

What was he thinking! Of course it was worth it! Malcolm remembered the chop to Trent's neck with particular satisfaction, and the crunching blow against his jaw. Yeah, and the knee in his balls. He smiled despite his discomfort. It was surprising how much damage you could inflict in a short time, if you really put your mind to it.

Gingerly, Malcolm rolled onto his side, cursing the bastards for slinging him down on his back. That had to be deliberate. He hissed as the move pulled at sore muscles. Damnation, it was painful. No analgesic either, huh? Nice. He hoped he'd have a chance to return the favour someday.

He inched his way into a sitting position, and, with an effort, he hauled himself upright. Although it hurt, he knew he should try to keep moving to help ease the spasm. He took a couple of unsteady steps to the water dispenser and drew a cupful. The water was blessedly cool.

After drinking his fill, he wandered over to the door and peered through the clear areas. There wasn't anyone about that he could see. Only the closed outer door, which he knew led onto the corridor.

The cell was silent, insulated against the noises on board ship, but he could detect that Enterprise wasn't under way. The telltale tremors of the deckplating when impulse was running were absent. They weren't at warp, either. Were they still docked at the Facility? He debated activating the call button to get someone to tell him what was going on. But what was the point? They wouldn't want to indulge him, would they? He decided not to give them the satisfaction.

Easing his shoulders up and back, Malcolm began with some gentle pacing, becoming more vigorous as the tightness eased.

----------------------

Malcolm lay on his bunk, staring across at the unoccupied cell next to his. He didn't know how long he'd been stuck in the brig, but he'd had sufficient time to replay ad nauseam that incredible conversation with Trent. Malcolm still found it impossible to fathom. How could Starfleet even contemplate conscription, because that's what it came down to? Surely that couldn't be right? Were relations with the Klingons really that bad? His mind ran in an endless loop of questions without coming to any sensible conclusion.

It was no good. He abandoned the fruitless speculation on Starfleet's motives and instead decided to address how he was going to play this. Carefully, he shifted position so he was lying on his other side, looking at the wall the bunk was fixed to.

There was no point in searching for weaknesses in the cell. He knew there weren't any he could find. If he wanted to escape, his only hope would be when the guards opened that door. Was there any point in even trying to escape now? If he got away from Enterprise - a tall order in itself - they would hunt him down. Even if he reached the warren that was the Facility, he wouldn't be able to hide there forever, although he could give them a good run for their money.

He mused on the possibilities offered by the Facility as a bolthole, in a theoretical sort of way. It kept his mind occupied. Kept the anger at bay. He had to be able to think straight, and allowing himself to rage at the injustice of it all detracted from the cool detachment he needed. He had learnt that lesson a very long time ago.

So, perhaps he should play the game - go along with whatever Starfleet demanded, for now - but box clever. He'd do nothing that anyone could complain about. He would do whatever was asked of him - with one exception: there was no way he would use his talents for Starfleet's forcefield program. Then, when the opportunity arose - as soon as humanly possible - he would take off and disappear into the woodwork. Neither Starfleet nor the Klingons would find him. The Galaxy was a big place.

He sighed at the unhappy idea of living as a fugitive. Could he do that?

But perhaps he didn't have to run to escape from Starfleet's authority? Perhaps he could find a way to persuade Starfleet - Admiral Payne, it would seem - that he could be trusted to look after himself as a civilian, still based at the Facility and staying well away from any aliens who might want a piece of his work. He was pretty confident he could keep the research results secure, and himself safe, but how could he demonstrate that to Starfleet?

But Trent wasn't concerned about Malcolm's own wishes, was he? Would Payne be any different? Why would he care, as long as he had Malcolm and his work firmly under control, and the best way of achieving that was to insist on this compulsion to active duty.

Malcolm grunted and laboriously turned over once more, his eyes roving over the opposite wall. Naturally, there was nothing new to see there and he wondered for how much longer he was going to be confined. The tedium was already starting to get to him.

He had just begun yet another run through his options, when he caught a movement at the edge of his vision. Tilting his head, but otherwise remaining still, Malcolm saw the outer door open to admit a security crewman, Crewman Goulde - one of his old team - and close on his heels, Hoshi Sato. Malcolm broke into a grin at that welcome sight. He eased to his feet and padded over to the door.

Hoshi and Goulde were having an animated discussion judging by their gestures, but Malcolm couldn't hear what was being said because of the soundproofing. He waited with impatient frustration for them to settle their arrangement, eager to speak to Hoshi. Then the flurry of conversation ceased. Hoshi moved to the cell door and pushed the button to open a comm channel with Malcolm. Her head was turned away from Malcolm as she thanked Goulde.

Malcolm had forgotten how glossy Hoshi's blue-black hair was. And she was still as trim as ever. She hadn't changed much since he'd last seen her. Malcolm heard Goulde telling her to hurry and that he would be right outside.

Goulde left, the outer door closing behind him, and Hoshi faced Malcolm, her dark eyes filled with concern and sympathy.

"Hoshi," said Malcolm. "Thanks for coming." His eyes slid down to her rank pips. "Congratulations on the promotion."

Hoshi looked surprised and laughed. "Thanks, but it was some time ago. How are you?"

"I'm fine," said Malcolm. "Especially seeing you."

"Goulde owed me a favour," said Hoshi, with a smile. "I don't think he'd have done this if you were his boss. Waters isn't quite as... authoritative as you were!"

Malcolm snorted. "He's a git," he said with conviction. He'd thought that from the first and nothing had changed that opinion.

Hoshi grew worried. "Don't underestimate him, Malcolm. Goulde said Waters got a dressing down from the Commodore because of you. I get the impression Waters can be vindictive."

"Huh. Thanks for the warning, but I can look after myself." Actually, Malcolm was relishing the idea of getting into a clash with Waters. He grinned as he imagined the rollicking the Commodore gave Waters. Served him right - he had been asleep on the job.

Hoshi glanced over her shoulder. "I'm not supposed to be here. I'll have to be quick. They've turned the cameras off for now."

Malcolm nodded. There were advantages to having the loyalty of his old team. "Are we still docked at the Mining Facility?"

"Yes. I don't know when we'll be leaving. Commander Tucker is retrieving some equipment from the Facility."

'Some equipment', huh? Malcolm felt a flash of rage. He said fiercely, "Oh? He is, is he?" causing Hoshi to jump back at the unexpected outburst.

Trip had been very interested in his forcefield experiments. Had he been ordered to carry out a recce when he visited Malcolm's workroom? He had been most attentive to everything there, hadn't he? Malcolm tore his savage glare from the blameless Hoshi and growled at the deckplates, folding his arms across his chest with some force. The sudden movement pulled at his back and he swiftly dropped his arms by his side again, letting out a hiss of pain.

"Malcolm? Are you sure you're okay?" asked Hoshi, cautiously venturing closer to the cell door once more.

Malcolm took a few steadying breaths. "Yeah. Fine. It's just the after-effects of a stun. It'll pass in time. Nothing to worry about." He backed this up with a reassuring half-smile.

Hoshi wasn't convinced. "I'll go see the doctor. I'll ask her to come check on you."

"No, Hoshi. You're not supposed to be here, remember? I don't want you to get into trouble. I'm okay, really I am. It's not permanent. It's improving by the minute." Malcolm gently swung his arms by way of demonstration.

"Well... okay. If you're sure."

"Uh huh." Malcolm braced his hands against the wall. "Hoshi, could you do something for me?"

"Of course! That's why I'm here."

"See if you can contact a miner called Jeff Gomez. He's on the Facility at the moment. Tell him what's happened, that I don't think I'll be back soon. Tell him I'm sorry about Bailey." Malcolm bit his lip. He was worried about Bailey. Bailey would go to the Ramessan system on his own, and Malcolm didn't think it would turn out well.

"Sure," said Hoshi. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. Ask Gomez if he'll sort out my account with Admin. He'll know what to do. He should be able to contact me via Starfleet - eventually - for authorisations and so on. At least, I hope he'll be able to. I don't suppose they'll leave me entirely incommunicado. Not if they're dragging me back into the service."

"What do you mean?"

"Sorry?"

"What did you mean by 'dragging you back into the service'?"

"Trent said there was some regulation that meant I could be forced back into active duty, against my wishes." Malcolm frowned at the recollection of that unpleasant revelation.

Hoshi's eyes widened in surprise. "What? What regulation is this?"

"Err, it came out about four months ago. I can't remember exactly what it's called. Something to do with transferral of status. It's about streamlining the procedures for personnel wanting to come off the reserve list and onto active status. Trent read out a paragraph..." Malcolm thought back. "Umm, he said it was in the Miscellaneous section. Section 48 something. I can't remember exactly. It said something like in exceptional circumstances, the Chief of Ops can transfer someone to active status, if the security of Earth or Starfleet is under threat."

Hoshi pursed her mouth. "I'll be able to track it down from that."

"Would you? Could you get me a copy? I'd like to read it properly. After all, I haven't got anything else to do here until they let me out."

"Sure. I'll see if I can get it to you." Hoshi tilted her head to one side, listening out for something. "I've got to go. I'm supposed to be translating the language from the alien ship we just collected."

"Do you know how the alien is? The one we found in stasis on that vessel?" asked Malcolm.

Hoshi's face fell. "He didn't make it. They tried everything, but it just wasn't enough."

Malcolm had been expecting that, but it still came as a blow. "Damn," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry. I've really got to go now."

"Go on. Thanks for coming, Hoshi," said Malcolm appreciatively, reflecting that he was lucky to have a friend like Hoshi.

Hoshi gave Malcolm a quick grin and half-ran to the outer door, escaping to the corridor and freedom. Malcolm stared after her, noting absently that the comm channel had closed. He was in his soundproof box once more.

----------------------

When Trip turned up, Malcolm was lying down again.

Trip's voice came through the comm channel. "Malcolm? Are you awake?"

Malcolm watched Trip through barely-open eyes and considered ignoring him. He was angry with the man, at his spying.

Malcolm thought he had been quite clever at protecting access to the forcefield closedown mechanism, but if anyone could break it, it would be Trip. Especially with that preview he'd had. He wondered if Trip had figured out the switchover trick with the power supply yet. Was that why he was here? Had Trip had come to gloat over getting through his forcefield?

Malcolm's fury grew at the injustice of his situation. No doubt all his forcefield equipment was now on board Enterprise to join the things taken from his quarters on the Facility. With an effort, he clamped down on his emotions, resolving to maintain his self-control.

"Malcolm!" called Trip more loudly, peering through the door.

It was clear Trip was determined to talk to him and wasn't going to leave until he had. Sighing, Malcolm rolled off the bunk and stepped over to the cell door. He gazed coldly at Trip.

"How are you?" said Trip, resting the palm of his hand against the door. His voice sounded thinly over the comm but that didn't disguise the anxious note it held.

Malcolm shrugged. "Okay," he said flatly.

Trip frowned in confusion at Malcolm's hostile attitude. "Are you sure? Do you need anything?"

Malcolm jerked his head back but said nothing.

Forcing a smile, Trip reached into one of his pockets and pulled out Malcolm's remote device. It had been taken from Malcolm when he had been out cold. Trip wagged the remote at Malcolm. "Neat! I got my demo after all, huh? Impressive result, as well. A stable, dense field."

Malcolm didn't react. He knew how good it was.

Trip joked, "I guess you don't have another of these about your person for switching it off?"

"Go to Hell, Trip," rasped Malcolm, turning away in disgust and barely registering that his forcefield was apparently still intact.

"Hey! What's that for?" exclaimed Trip. "I'm on your side!"

Malcolm stood with his back to Trip, arms tightly crossed and head bowed.

Trip said in exasperation, "Talk to me, dammit! I know these aren't the best of circumstances, but-"

Malcolm had heard enough. He spun around, ignoring the now-diminished pain in his back. Barely containing his rage, he said, "Fine then. You come sneaking around my workroom so that when you abduct me, you can thieve my equipment, steal my results, and you expect me to want to talk to you? Why should I even want to see you, never mind have some cosy chat with you?" He swallowed hard and cracked his forearm against the cell door with considerable force.

Trip jumped at the noise. It was his turn to get angry. "Now look here, Malcolm. You invited me to see your work - remember? I didn't 'sneak around' as you put it. And I wasn't the one to abduct you. I had no idea that Trent and the Captain were going to do this."

Malcolm glared at him, breathing hard. "No?" he spat out.

"No!" replied Trip firmly, meeting his gaze without flinching.

Malcolm eventually dropped his eyes, letting out a deep shuddering breath. He said quietly, "You're trying to break my forcefield, though, aren't you? So you can take everything."

Trip replied levelly, "Yeah, I am. That's what I've been ordered to do. Doesn't mean I like doing it, or agree with it." He gave a low laugh. "Or that I'm anywhere near succeeding, and I am trying. It's a personal challenge, you know."

Malcolm gave a small smile and looked up at Trip. "I guess it is." He sighed. "I suppose I understand. In my time I've followed enough orders I had issues with. I can't blame you for doing the same."

Trip nodded, relieved at Malcolm's recognition of his difficult position. Then he said mischievously, "I don't suppose you'll tell me how to switch it off, now we've cleared that up?"

Malcolm grinned at him. "Nope."

Trip grinned back. "Didn't think so!"

Rolling his shoulders, Malcolm started pacing. He was still sore when he remained motionless for too long. "That git Waters shot me," he muttered.

"So I heard. But I also hear you did some damage to the Commodore."

"Yes." Malcolm stopped and asked eagerly, "How bad was it?"

Trip grunted. "Pretty bad. You are not in his good books." He became sombre.

"Good," said Malcolm with feeling. "You know what he's done? Conscripted me into Starfleet!"

"The Captain told me. Showed me the regulation, too."

"How can that be possible, Trip? Everyone in Starfleet is a volunteer." Malcolm laughed humourlessly. "Everyone but little old me, it would seem. Anyway, it won't work. I've got a plan."

Trip was unconvinced. "Yeah?"

"Uh huh. The regulation Trent quoted at me was all about transferring in. All I need to do is resign. I didn't hear anything to stop that. Oh, of course, he can go through the whole palaver again, get an order drawn up, signed by the Admiral, read to me. And guess what? I'll promptly resign again. We can go on forever like that. And at some time, when I'm in the resigned stage, I'll slip away into the night." Malcolm made a running gesture with his fingers.

Trip grimaced. He ran a hand over his mouth.

Seeing his friend's discomfort, Malcolm paused in his enthusiastic delivery. "What is it, Trip? What's the matter?"

"It won't work like you think."

"Why not?"

Trip cocked his head to one side. "There are some circumstances when one is forbidden to resign from Starfleet."

That was all he needed to say. Malcolm's world exploded. He gaped at Trip as the implications hit home hard, instantaneously. His mouth went dry. He licked his lips. Why hadn't this occurred to him before now? He'd been a civilian for too long, it would seem. Used to miners' anarchy. Trent was a hard-nosed bastard, no doubt about it. Vengeful. Of course he would go for maximum damage.

"I guess the charge is assault?" Malcolm croaked out.

"Yeah, that's the main one," said Trip.

"The one that'll get me locked up for... for years." Assault, striking a superior officer, actual bodily harm, insubordination... He was going to be living in a cell like this for the foreseeable future. How could he possibly endure that? What would his parents think? It would destroy his dad. Suddenly, Malcolm couldn't stand. He slid down with his back against the door. Raising his right arm before him, he noted with detached interest how much it shook. He pushed his palm down on the deckplating but the trembling continued.

"You have a defence," suggested Trip. "Or at least, there are mitigating factors."

"A defence? What defence can there possibly be to trying to maim a senior officer?"

"Temporary insanity."

"Insanity! That's a good one. That'll get me locked up in the loony bin instead of military prison."

"_Temporary_ insanity," said Trip. "I've been thinking about this. That stunt Trent pulled on you would be enough to throw anyone for a loop. It might work. Get the sentence reduced. And there's your previous service record."

Malcolm gave a bitter laugh. "This is Starfleet, remember? The ones who think nothing of kidnapping someone against all rule of law. They wanted me out of the way of the Klingons. This is a perfect way to achieve it." He wrapped his arms tightly around his knees and dropped his head. "I'm so stupid," he murmured.

"What do you mean?" said Trip indignantly.

Malcolm lifted his head and shouted, "I shouldn't have bloody well hit him, should I!"

"Look, we've got time to think of something. The court martial won't be until you're shipped back to Earth, and you'll have legal representation. I'll ask T'Pol if she can help. Perhaps she knows some Vulcan lawyers?"

Despite himself, Malcolm laughed at that. "Great idea, Trip. A Vulcan lawyer to assist on temporary insanity! Doesn't that count as a rather extreme emotion?"

Startled, Trip said, "I don't know. Does it?"

Malcolm gave another shaky laugh, then sighed. "You'd better go. I don't want you getting into trouble, as well. You've got a forcefield to crack."

Trip squatted down so he was at the same level as Malcolm. "I'm on your side. I'll do everything I can. And I know I'm not the only one."

Malcolm gave a half-smile, half-grimace and a quick nod of acknowledgement, but didn't look at Trip. He was too emotional to trust himself at that moment.

Trip seemed to understand. He slowly stood. "I'll be back."

Malcolm heard the outer door open. Then a new voice.

"Commander Tucker," said Lieutenant Waters, apparently taken off-guard.

"Lieutenant," acknowledged Trip.

"Uh, sir. The prisoner isn't permitted visitors."

Trip said, with authority, "That doesn't apply to me."

"Umm. The Commodore's orders-"

Trip cut in, "The Commodore ordered me to retrieve the equipment from the Facility. I needed to speak with Mister Reed about that."

"Yes, sir." Waters left it at that. He moved closer to the comm. "Get up, Reed, and move away from the door."

Malcolm heaved a deep sigh and moved to comply. There were methods to deal with recalcitrant prisoners and he wasn't inclined to test them. His stomach gave a massive rumble at the thought of something to eat. He was starving hungry.

Except, when he stood up and turned, he saw that Waters had not brought food. There was a crewman with Waters, the same one who had collected Malcolm from his quarters on the Facility, however long ago it was now - Malcolm had lost track of time. The crewman was carrying a bundle of clothes, topped by a pair of standard issue boots. A Starfleet uniform.

Waters drew his weapon and waved it towards Malcolm. "Move to the back of the cell, turn around and place your hands against the wall."

Malcolm gritted his teeth but did as ordered. He heard the cell door open, and the crewman move to the bunk to drop the uniform.

"Turn around," ordered Waters.

Malcolm saw the cell door was still open, framing Waters. The crewman stood immediately behind Waters with his weapon in his hand, too. There was no chance of making a run for it. So Malcolm waited.

Waters grinned unpleasantly. "Get changed."

Malcolm stared at him. His previous disenchantment with Starfleet had changed into something considerably stronger since he had been detained on board Enterprise. The thought of wearing that uniform again was almost sufficient to make him want to throw up.

Waters rubbed a finger along the barrel of his weapon. "You can get changed or, if you don't co-operate, I have orders to stun you and we'll do it for you."

Malcolm remained expressionless. How he managed that, he didn't know. The idea of Waters pawing over him was repellent.

It was a no-brainer.

Malcolm stripped off, neatly folding his discarded clothes on the bunk and placing his boots at its foot. It didn't bother him in the least that Waters stared at him throughout this procedure. A boarding school education removed all such embarrassments. Trip, on the other hand, was looking ready to explode. He was agitatedly running his hands through his hair, over his face, fidgeting and unable to stand still.

Malcolm grabbed the Starfleet issue underclothes and slipped them on. Then he picked up the jumpsuit, noting the two rank pips and red piping. The sleeve carried Headquarters' badge - Earth in a lozenge. That figured, thought Malcolm. The same as Trent's posting, wasn't it? Reluctantly, he dragged on the jumpsuit. Once he had been so incredibly proud to have earned the right to wear this uniform, and now that was tarnished beyond redemption.

"Boots as well."

Obediently, Malcolm sat on his bunk and pulled them on. Any show of resistance would just play in Waters' hands, and he wasn't going to give Waters the satisfaction of seeing how much wearing this uniform disturbed him. Instead, he dredged up an amused grunt. "That it, Waters? Seen enough?"

Waters said, "I think we'll take your civilian gear, just in case you change your mind. Get back again and face the wall, same routine."

Malcolm raised an eyebrow at Waters, backing it up with a mocking grin. "Am I really that dangerous?"

"I don't consider you dangerous, no. But I follow procedures. I'm sure you remember them."

Waters' grip on his weapon was rigid, his feet solidly planted. The man was coiled so tightly he wouldn't be able to move without falling over. Malcolm laughed at him, shaking his head in derision as he stood to comply with Waters' demands. Some security man!

Malcolm observed with pleasure that his insolent attitude was beginning to have an effect. A muscle in Waters' cheek twitched and there was a slight flare to his nostrils. Malcolm was about to make a sarcastic comment when he saw Trip's shake of the head and warning expression. Instead, he contented himself with another scornful laugh, but said nothing. Trip was right. There was no sense in being more antagonistic than he need be. Time to be sensible, for once.

The crewman took Malcolm's old clothes and the door closed, leaving Malcolm alone in his cell again.

Tugging on the uniform cuffs and around his neck, Malcolm stepped forwards to the door. Determined not to show anything, he said, keeping his tone light and devil-may-care, "So, Waters. What happens now?"

"Nothing as far as you're concerned. You stay here."

Malcolm nodded sagely. "I see." He swept his eyes over the cell. "Pleasant accommodations."

Waters snorted. He could see through the bravado.

To Malcolm's mortification, a deafening gurgle erupted from his stomach, spoiling the effect completely. He gave a cross grunt and folded his arms tightly over his chest.

Trip stared at Malcolm then turned to Waters. "When did Mister Reed last eat?"

"I don't know," admitted Waters.

"You have brought him food?" asked Trip, his suspicions growing.

Waters stood his ground. "He hasn't asked for anything, sir."

Trip took two steps to Waters so he was only inches away from him. The lieutenant was about the same height as Trip but appeared smaller as he tried to shrink away without actually moving.

Trip was furious. He said quietly, "Lieutenant, you should know by now that on this ship, we do things properly. That includes prisoner welfare. You will ensure that Mister Reed is treated in accordance with regulations. Is that understood?"

Waters nodded. "Sir," he said.

Trip hadn't finished. "I've a good mind to place you on report for this. Any more lapses and I will."

Shifting awkwardly, Waters opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and merely nodded again.

"Dismissed."

Waters sprung to attention and left, trailed by the crewman.

Trip looked at Malcolm. He said, his voice full of concern, "Malcolm, you should have said something. Promise me you'll let me know if he tries anything else? I might not be able to get you out of here, but at least I can make sure you're treated fairly."

Malcolm nodded. "I will. Thanks for helping."

Trip bit his lip. "I must go," he said reluctantly.

"Don't worry about me. I'll be okay." Malcolm tried to smile but it was a poor effort.

There was nothing else Trip could say. He nodded and with a backwards look, stepped out into the corridor and out of Malcolm's sight.

Malcolm wandered back to his bunk, distractedly rubbing a hand over the uniform sleeve. He thought miserably about his future. It was not pleasant. Utterly dejected, he slumped down on the bunk. Then he curled up on his side, facing the near wall.

----------------------

Malcolm was stationed at the cell door, gazing blankly at the area beyond. How long had he been confined in the brig? It was difficult to tell because his sleeping pattern was haywire. He reckoned he'd been on board Enterprise for two days. No - longer now. It must be morning on the third day - the remains of breakfast lay by his bunk. His only real recourse for time-keeping was what meals were brought to him. Waters might be playing games by deliberately getting them out of step, but Malcolm didn't think so. Chef wouldn't be too impressed with a trick like that, not for Malcolm who'd always got on well with him - most of the time, at any rate. It paid to stay on Chef's good side.

Malcolm was bored out of his skull. He had tried to occupy his mind by working on his forcefield theory, but he couldn't hold his thread. His thoughts kept being side-tracked by his predicament and, without anything to write on, he had to start at the same place again after every lapse in concentration.

Hoshi hadn't returned. Neither had Trip. The only person he'd seen since Trip's earlier visit was the crewman who had accompanied Waters to bring him from the Facility. The crewman brought his food in silence, and took the dirty plates away - in silence. Malcolm considered opening a conversation with him, at least to discover his name, but then decided they could stick it. It was another one of Waters' games and he was damned if he was going to give in.

He resumed pacing. It was puzzling. The ship was still docked at the Facility. Why hadn't Trip solved the forcefield problem yet? Surely he'd had sufficient time?

Dropping to the floor, Malcolm went into his workout routine, starting with push-ups. His earlier despair had been replaced by an overwhelming anger. He wasn't prepared to meekly submit. He would fight every inch of the way.

Closing his eyes, he focussed on locking his arms, perfect form, exact motions - driving away thoughts of seconds, minutes, days... years.

Years. The prospect was terrifying.

He was holding position when the first blast came. The ship rocked, flinging him to one side.

Malcolm's initial thought was that there had been a catastrophic systems malfunction. The second and third impacts put paid to that theory. They were torpedoes - couldn't be anything else. Enterprise was very vulnerable. She was still docked with warp engines powered down and it took some minutes to bring up even impulse from this state. Springing to his feet, Malcolm ran forward to peer through the clear regions of the cell door, but he could see nothing except the far door onto the corridor. Frustrated, he slammed his palm against the wall.

Cannon bursts were raking Enterprise now. Enterprise was at last starting to return fire, judging by that little shudder, virtually undetectable. That was the forward starboard cannon. He'd never been able to entirely eliminate that kickback.

Impulse engines were finally up to speed, but - no - they were dropping again. Malcolm strained all senses. He stabbed at the call button, but there was no response.

The exchange of fire had ceased. The battle was over. That was quick, thought Malcolm, perturbed. From his reading of the action, Enterprise had come off worse. He hoped he was wrong.

He waited a few minutes and then tried the call button again, but to no avail. It remained unanswered.

What the hell had happened? Malcolm let fly a stream of obscenities under his breath.

He began pacing, counting each change of direction, counting the exact number of paces in each pass. His mind was racing in overdrive, but he didn't have enough information to reach any meaningful conclusion.

Perhaps ten minutes later, he had his answer. The outer door slid across. Malcolm stopped his obsessive marching and turned towards it.

Klingons!

* * *

TBC 


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: see Chapter 1.

A/N: Thank you for reviewing. It is so interesting to see what different people make of this story.

* * *

**Chapter 12**

Malcolm stood rooted to the spot at the sight of the Klingons.

There were two of them, both huge and bedecked with weaponry - disrupters and bladed weapons. They were speaking, perhaps shouting at him, judging by the accompanying gesticulations, but the soundproofing meant he couldn't hear a thing. Shaking off his initial stunned shock, Malcolm slowly backed away until he was at the rear of his cell. So much for Trent's plans for him! If he had been free and on the Facility, at least he would have had a chance to fight back.

The taller of the aliens gestured at the door and then banged on the door panel, trying brute force in the absence of the proper codes. When that didn't work, he turned to his companion and, as one, they directed their disrupters onto the door and fired. Malcolm flung an arm up to protect his eyes from the brilliant green light. A swirl of acrid fumes from the blasted door panel filled the cell, catching at the back of his throat and making him cough.

One of the Klingons forced open the door, and Malcolm stood with nothing between him and the two murderous-looking aliens and their equally murderous-looking disrupters. He ran his tongue over dry lips and assessed the Klingons standing before him. They were well equipped for hand-to-hand combat. In addition to the disrupters, he could now see more clearly the wicked three-bladed daggers at their belts. Malcolm particularly noted that their hilts were worn through use. He rapidly examined his options, which were... limited. Attack and defence were both non-starters, although he was willing to try if nothing better came to mind. That would be a last resort, though, when there was nothing left to lose. Negotiation? Perhaps... It might buy him time to improve his chances.

The taller Klingon snarled something in his own language and lifted his disrupter.

Malcolm had no idea what the words meant. He waited warily, his eyes flickering to the weapon, but remained silent. He had seen what those disrupters could do. They had no stun setting. Apparently, no true warrior would demean himself with such a function. A sudden incongruous thought popped into his mind that there were some benefits, after all, to being locked up in a nice, safe cell. He stifled the inappropriate laugh that threatened to intrude.

The Klingon spoke again. As far as Malcolm could work out, it was a repetition of the previous words but a lot louder, and he began to suspect that negotiation wasn't on the cards, either. He said carefully, slowly spreading his hands wide, "I don't speak Klingon. I don't understand."

The Klingon stared, then yelled at him, sounding even more enraged, and waving his disrupter about in an undisciplined fashion.

Malcolm shook his head. He said steadily, trying for a calming approach, "There's no point in shouting. I still can't understand you. Don't you have a translator?"

It seemed they didn't. The second Klingon entered the cell and reached Malcolm in two long strides, urging him away from the wall with impatient shakes of his disrupter. He growled out something. It sounded like cursing, but then everything in Klingon sounded like that to Malcolm's ears. It got the message home, however. With a single glance at him, Malcolm complied, hating his capitulation. He wanted to resist but that would be pointless. It would only put them on guard at best, and at worst he could find himself dead.

Malcolm followed the first Klingon through the outer door into the corridor, with the other Klingon at his back. Malcolm's stomach flipped as he saw a grisly sight before him. Just at the threshold, a crewman lay face down on the floor, one arm flung out along the deck, the other folded under him. A still-smoking gash sliced deeply across his back, cutting well into vital organs: a gruesome mix of moist redness and black charred flesh, with blood thickly pooling beneath him. The man was clearly dead. Malcolm had to step over his legs and, as he did so, he looked down at his open-mouthed, open-eyed face. It was the silent crewman who had been bringing him his meals. Malcolm regretted not trying to talk to him. He had never even heard the man's voice. Now his games with Waters seemed trivial, put firmly into context.

The Klingon behind Malcolm shoved him on. Reluctantly, Malcolm trudged along after the leader, noticing the dark marks of weapons' fire scored deep along the walls and deck. The Klingons were almost relaxed, keeping minimal lookout as they walked through the silent ship, and Malcolm surmised that they were in complete control of Enterprise.

They entered a turbolift, which meant much too close proximity to the Klingons for Malcolm's taste. One of them said something to his comrade, who laughed, then pulled at Malcolm's left arm. The alien twisted it to show the Headquarters shoulder patch to his fellow. Malcolm winced, but managed to suppress any noise that might reveal his discomfort. There was some more unintelligible discussion but then they grew quiet, and Malcolm had plenty of time to worry about what the Klingons had in store for him.

Malcolm was taken to E Deck. Outside the mess hall, three Klingons stood around, exchanging ritual-sounding exclamations and vigorous slaps on the back, their good spirits in sharp contrast to Malcolm's feeling of foreboding. Malcolm added them to his running tally - five, so far. One of his escorts opened the door, seized Malcolm's arm in a vice-tight grip and propelled him into the room.

The mess hall was filled with Starfleet personnel sitting on the floor with their heads bowed. Sweeping his gaze across them, Malcolm made a rough count. From the numbers here, it could be most of the crew. Four Klingons - that made nine - stood guard with their disrupters raised, continuously monitoring their captives and ready to fire at the slightest provocation. Archer, Trip and Trent were held separately from the rest of the crew, over to Malcolm's left, on the floor near the serving hatches.

A sudden blow from behind thrust Malcolm forward and over an outstretched Klingon foot, sending him, reeling, amongst the main body of the crew.

"Sorry," Malcolm muttered as he pulled his hand away from a woman's face and rolled off the man he had landed on.

One of the guards took an aggressive step toward him and jerked his muzzle in the air. Malcolm sighed heavily and wrapped his hands around his knees like the others. The only good thing about this was that he hadn't been singled out. Perhaps he wasn't the target, after all?

"Head down," grunted the Klingon via a translator somewhere on his person, and Malcolm had no choice but to obey. He kept his eyes lowered to the floor for long minutes, waiting a fraction more to be certain. Cautiously, he looked up under his eyebrows. He could see Waters ahead of him and to his right, also apparently scanning the room for possibilities. If they were to make a move, it had to be soon, before any more aliens turned up. At present, there were five in the room and four outside.

Malcolm covertly observed the Klingons' disposition. And realised that it couldn't be done. Any attack against the Klingons would be doomed. By the time the humans had got to their feet, half would already be dead. Most of the rest would manage a few steps before succumbing. Those disrupters were too deadly. The Klingons could stand their ground and spray them across an attacking crowd, and that would be the end of it. And that didn't even take into account those standing guard outside. Malcolm scowled at the Klingons, furious at being so helpless. He hoped Waters had reached the same conclusion as him, but readied himself, just in case.

One of the Klingons - possibly their captain, judging by the others' deference to him - went over to Archer, Trip and Trent. He gestured to Archer to get up. The Klingon's body hid Archer from Malcolm's view and, to his frustration, he couldn't make out the words of the conversation. However, he could clearly see Trip's face, tipped upwards to follow what was said.

At first, Trip seemed curious, if a little apprehensive. Then he blanched, with horror etched on his face, and said loudly, "No! Captain!"

Archer's voice carried back as a murmur, then he reached down to touch Trip lightly on his shoulder. Trip shook his head. Bending low, Archer said something else and then walked towards the door followed by the Klingon captain.

Everyone's head was raised to watch Archer, their captors' instructions ignored.

Archer stopped, then turned and slowly looked around at his crew. He said, "The Klingons only want me. If I go with them willingly, they won't harm Enterprise or her crew. Please, do what they say, and Enterprise and the mining Facility will be safe." He faltered, then his mouth quirked upward in a smile. "It's been an honour to serve with you all. You are all remarkable people." He held his head high and strode out of the room, his Klingon shadow close behind.

Archer's dignity impressed Malcolm. That showed the Klingons what humans were made of.

As the door shut, whispers ran through the crew, seasoned with a few expletives. Malcolm saw Waters' shoulders slump, thoughts of rebellion seemingly fled. A Klingon shouted for quiet and the restlessness faded, to be replaced by glum silence and resignation.

Malcolm sighed heavily and dropped his head, knitting his fingers tightly together to settle in for what might be a long period of time. Much as he disliked Archer, he wouldn't wish this fate on anyone. The only hope would be to hunt down the Klingons after they had had their fun on Enterprise, but, somehow, he imagined the Klingons would have planned for that. Out in open space, Enterprise would be a much more formidable opponent. Perhaps these Klingons were planning to meet up with others.

There was another disturbance as the Klingon who had accompanied Archer returned. He made straight for Trip and Trent. Trip was slumped against the wall, his face covered by a hand. Trent seemed much more composed. That didn't surprise Malcolm one bit. He half-hoped that the Klingons would take Trent, too - he was a commodore, after all. But no, he couldn't wish that even on Trent.

Trent got to his feet, words were exchanged and he, too, was taken from the mess hall. Malcolm caught Trip's eye and gave an encouraging jerk of his head. Trip answered with a brief nod, and then covered his face once more.

More minutes passed. Malcolm wondered how long they would be kept prisoner. What more did the Klingons want from Enterprise?

A Klingon came in and talked to one of Malcolm's liberators. He responded with a jab of his weapon, followed by a more careful indication - straight at Malcolm. The Klingon growled a reply and advanced on the crew. Glaring at Malcolm, he said, via a translator unit, "Get up!"

Malcolm couldn't disguise his shock, which seemed to amuse the Klingon. Annoyed, Malcolm grimaced and scrambled to his feet, determined not to provide any more entertainment. Quelling uneasy thoughts, and on the alert for any advantage, Malcolm followed the Klingon out into the corridor.

Trent was there, surrounded by four Klingons, but there was no sign of Archer. Held fast by a steely Klingon hand clamped on his collar, Malcolm was shoved into the middle of the group, feeling dwarfed by the aliens, each of whom was at least a couple of heads taller than he was. He consoled himself with the thought that the bigger they are, the harder they fall. Crashing to the ground from that height couldn't be much fun. He gave a small grin, but let it slip away when he noticed Trent watching him.

It was his first opportunity to see Trent at close hand since the explosive finale to his meeting with him and Archer. Trent still carried considerable bruising around his upper jaw and left eye, bringing the right hook vividly to mind. Malcolm reflexively massaged his knuckles. The soreness he felt there was nothing compared to what Trent had gone through, but then Trent probably had had the luxury of medical treatment. More interesting were the dark marks around his neck - the results of the chop and a crushing attempt at strangulation.

Malcolm's attention was wrenched away from this professional, and enjoyable, appreciation of his previous handiwork by the most senior Klingon.

"You! Go with my men to shut down the forcefield apparatus on the station." The Klingon captain glared down at Malcolm.

Malcolm decided on a combative approach. He folded his arms, rocked back on his heels and sneered up at the Klingon. "No."

The Klingon let out a bellow and cuffed Malcolm around the side of his head, sending him flying into one of the others, who pushed him upright again. His head still ringing, Malcolm considered the advisability of further resistance. But then, if they beat him into a pulp, he wouldn't be able to help them, would he? He assumed they were smart enough to realise that. But… possibly not. The Klingon raised his fist and Malcolm braced himself for another blow. Instead, the Klingon lowered his hand and said to Trent, "Tell him."

"Do what he says, Lieutenant Reed," Trent said, rubbing a hand across his throat. His voice was abrasive - harsh on the ear and verydifferent now from the notable smoothness displayed during their previous meeting.

Malcolm frowned at Trent. Hadn't Trent been absolutely adamant that the technology should stay with Starfleet? If not, what had all the earlier shenanigans been about?

The Klingon said, "Obey, unless you want Enterprise destroyed. And this station." He leaned closer to Malcolm to emphasise his point, sending an exhalation of foul breath wafting over him.

"That's an order, Lieutenant," said Trent.

Malcolm looked at Trent, then at the Klingon, leering down at him. "Okay. I'll do it," he said bitterly, feeling sick to his stomach at this surrender and resenting the Klingon's expression of arrogant triumph. But what alternative did he have, with Enterprise and the Facility at risk?

The Klingon captain gave a derisive bark of laughter and grunted an order. Klingon hands snatched at Malcolm, pulling his arms in front of his body to receive solid handcuffs, which were tightly clamped around his wrists. Then he was marched away between three of the aliens, leaving Trent and the Klingon captain outside the mess hall.

As he was dragooned along, Malcolm considered the position. Would the Klingons really follow through on their threats if he didn't co-operate?

The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that the Klingons would not blow up Enterprise, or the Facility, while there was still a chance of them getting something out of the situation - like Archer and the forcefield gear. Him as well, most likely, but he guessed Archer had been the real prize. As he re-evaluated Trent's order, he concluded that Trent hadn't meant for him to roll over and unconditionally submit. That was not the Starfleet ethos. That order had been for show - providing any action - or inaction - didn't endanger ship or Facility.

What possible options did he have? The Klingons would have to free his arms so he could work on the forcefield equipment - that could give him a chance to escape. What exactly-?

His thoughts were jerked away from strategising as the Klingon to his left dug his elbow into him and shoved. Malcolm cannoned against the alien to his right, and was thrust back again. The Klingons laughed, enjoying their victory and the chance to toy with the human, jostling him between them.

Malcolm gritted his teeth and ignored the provocation, reverting back to thoughts of tactics. He decided to work very slowly on the forcefield generator. One never knew what a little extra time might do. Waiting for rescue by the cavalry - that smacked of desperation. He made a pessimistic face. And there wasn't always cavalry to be had. Much better to take matters into one's own hands.

All too quickly, they had reached the docking port, and Malcolm's options had still not expanded. He plodded onto the Facility between his escort - and pulled up short. Archer was there, standing against a wall and flanked by two Klingons. Archer's expression mirrored his own surprise. He was also graced with handcuffs, his arms fastened in front of him. A trickle of blood snaked down from the corner of his mouth, which was already starting to puff up.

Malcolm let out a small sigh. Now there were five Klingons to contend with. Then he brightened. Perhaps they would split up. Wouldn't Archer merit a larger contingent of guards, which would leave better odds for himself? The Klingons spoke amongst themselves. With no translation, Malcolm had no clue what they were talking about. The conversation could have been centred on slitting their captives' throats or what was for dinner. Whatever the topic, it always sounded fiercely belligerent in Klingon, whatever the dialect. How many did Hoshi say there were?

The discussion ended with a rush of guttural exclamations. The largest warrior brought out a translator unit. He spoke to Malcolm. "You work fast to disable the forcefield and we let you go free."

Malcolm gave a disbelieving half-smile. He rather thought they wouldn't miss out on the chance to grab the designer of the equipment. However, he could play along, perhaps encourage them to relax their vigilance. He nodded at Archer. "What about Captain Archer? Will you let him go, too?"

"No. He leaves with us, but if you co-operate, he will not be harmed."

Archer gave a sceptical snort at that, and then stared challengingly back, chin defiantly lifted, at a Klingon who raised a threatening hand. A brusque order from the leader made the Klingon stand down with a growl.

Malcolm agreed with Archer's assessment, but he had to sound like he believed them. He said firmly, "Very well. It's a deal. I turn it off as quickly as possible and you let me go. Sounds like a fair trade. I have to warn you - it will take some time, even so. It's not as easy as flicking a switch. This isn't even a prototype. It's experimental, complicated."

The Klingon said unwaveringly, "You work quickly! You delay and Archer suffers!"

"Okay! I've got it," said Malcolm, rolling his eyes, which elicited an angry snarl from the alien as his intent crossed language and species barriers. "I understand," he added sincerely, to soften his insolence, realising that if he got the sense knocked out of him, it would certainly be a drawback to any escape attempt.

----------------------

The Klingons prodded their two prisoners through the Facility's maze. Sandwiched in the middle, behind Archer, Malcolm moved willingly enough, hoping it would make their guards lax. The workroom was some distance away and his mind was still on the possibility of escape.

The party reached a three-way junction and the Klingons paused, uncertain as to which direction they should take. They had already gone wrong once and ended up at the kitchen's hydroponics beds. Malcolm kept a straight face. If they decided to go left here, it would afford a nice tour of the gym facilities.

An unmistakable light tremor rippled beneath Malcolm's boots. Knowing at once what that meant, Malcolm plucked at Archer's sleeve, awkwardly because of the restraints. "Get ready," he hissed, bracing himself as the first vibrations gave way to the main action. A low rumble powered through the Facility structure, immediately followed by the immense, alarming thump of the refinery machinery.

Malcolm gave Archer a nudge and shouted "Now!"

The station leaped in its customary dance. With shouts of confusion, the Klingons grabbed at bulkheads to steady themselves, no doubt fearing they were under attack from another ship or that the place was disintegrating

Malcolm jinked left, right and took off at a dead run down the corridor to their right. Archer needed no second command from Malcolm. He shouldered one of the Klingons to the ground and sped after him.

Malcolm didn't look back as he pounded along. He heard Archer's quick tread close on his heels. Not having any definite plan, Malcolm's first goal was to put distance between them and the pursuing aliens. He could hear guttural shouts now - they were on their tail - but humans were quicker than Klingons, he was pretty sure about that. He hurdled the raised threshold of a doorway, then vaulted over a container left abandoned on just the other side. He could hear Archer following suit, a stumble but then a recovery, accompanied by a panting curse.

Another door was ahead. Malcolm jumped through then darted to the side and skidded to a halt. As Archer reached the door, Malcolm jabbed the 'close' button. Archer slipped through sideways as it shut. Malcolm took a fraction of a second to spin the backup manual control wheel, swearing at the restraints biting into his wrists. The manual control was effortless - finely balanced for rapid emergency use if the power went down. Opening it took longer than the quick spin he had put on it and would slow the Klingons down a bit.

Malcolm ploughed on, Archer following. As Malcolm closed the next door and spun the control wheel, he began to have an idea for their next steps. They ran on until Malcolm suddenly braked to a full stop at the next T-junction. Archer ran into him and almost knocked him over.

"Go right," gasped Malcolm, staggering. He himself went left to the door about twenty metres away. He didn't go through this one, but shut it also. He spun the wheel then sprinted back towards the junction, passing Archer, who had waited for him, and taking the lead once more. They ran down the corridors, leaving the doors open now as they pelted through the warren. The sounds of the pursing Klingons had faded to nothing. A breathing space at last!

In his early days at the Facility, Malcolm had spent some time memorising its layout, including its service ducts and so forth. He had intended to gradually build up his knowledge, but had let it slide as other things took precedence. Some parts were not as clear in his mind as he would have liked. He slowed to a walk and peered at the designation signs on the walls.

"Malcolm?" said Archer.

Ignoring him, Malcolm ran on to the next section. This was what he was looking for. He checked the signage, rolling his shoulders as he paused. The restraints were digging in and their fixed nature was causing spasms in his muscles. Stepping up to the service door in the wall, he pressed the release button to pop the door outwards into the corridor. Malcolm pulled it to the side. "Go in there," he panted, allowing a look over his shoulder. Still no Klingons.

Archer gave him a quick glance, then stepped in, hunching over to get through the small opening. A light flickered on as movement was detected, revealing the cramped wall space - just over a metre deep and filled with pipes, boxes on the walls and cabling. Some miscellaneous junk took up part of the floor.

Malcolm followed and turned around with difficulty in the restricted space to pull the door shut, poking an unintentional elbow in Archer's side. He tried to close the door quietly, but the last part of the motion overtook him and it shut with a ringing clang, accelerating the last few centimetres under its spring bias. He grimaced, hoping that the aliens were still hunting them in the wrong direction. He put his worries to one side - after all, he couldn't do anything about that now.

"This way," Malcolm muttered with a jerk of his head. He eased past Archer - a tight squeeze - and cautiously made his way along the wall space, watching the placement of each footstep and ducking to avoid low pipes. It was slow work. The area was not designed for good accessibility. It was unusual for workers to have to spend much time in the wall spaces, so why give much consideration to it? And room was always at a premium in any space structure, whether ship or station.

Without both hands free to steady themselves it was difficult going, but eventually Malcolm was satisfied that they were far enough away from the service door they had entered. He slumped against a wall, finding a comfortable position amongst the obstructions. "We wait here," he announced.

Archer looked at him questioningly but remained silent. He turned around and half-lowered himself into a suitable space, facing the opposite way to Malcolm. His limbs were positioned at odd angles to fit around the systems components and Malcolm couldn't help smirking at his quandary. Sometimes it paid to be more compact.

"Comfortable?" asked Malcolm innocently, as Archer finally settled down.

"Yeah," Archer confirmed with a doubtful wince, already wriggling to seek a better position.

Malcolm reached up and fiddled around with some cabling. With a grunt, he yanked a plug from its socket and the lights went out. "In case the Klingons think to look in here," said Malcolm.

"Of course," muttered Archer into the dark.

Unbending a touch to let Archer in on some details, Malcolm explained, "There's a lot of power running through several of these conduits - part of the feed for the refinery. It should throw off any handheld scanners if they come this way. Possibly even scans from their ship. I'm hoping they think we're hiding in the refinery section - it has plenty of dead spots."

"So - we wait."

"Yeah. For now. Until they imagine we've had enough time to reach the other side of the Facility and concentrate the search there."

In the still darkness, Malcolm wondered how to tackle the next part. He squeezed his fists open and shut, pushing against the restraints. They really had to find some way to get them off. The cutting gear in his workroom would do the trick. He shifted a little, knocking against Archer. "Sorry," he said automatically. He gazed into nothing and thought about their chances of evasion. With Archer tagging along, it made things worse. If he were on his own, perhaps the Klingons would give up in time, but where Archer was concerned - never. They would never stop searching. That meant Archer and he had to find some way to fight back, to persuade the Klingons to leave.

They half-sat, half-stood, without speaking for a while, the only noise coming when they stretched a limb or caught a foot against a pipe. Malcolm listened out for the Klingons. He tried to remember what the acoustics had been like on those few occasions he had ventured into any of the wall spaces. Had he been aware of people passing by in the corridor on the other side of the wall?

Archer cleared his throat. "Uh, thanks, Malcolm."

Malcolm tensed at Archer's continued use of his name. It was so bloody typical of Archer to blithely assume that entitlement, despite all that had transpired. He curbed his annoyance and said, "Thanks for what?"

"For including me in on your escape."

Malcolm inhaled sharply. Did Archer really think he would have left him at the mercy of the Klingons? Or was he just being polite? Malcolm looked incredulously into the nothingness from where Archer's voice had originated. "Did you think I wouldn't?" he said, keeping his tone level.

"Of course not," said Archer, but Malcolm thought he hesitated before he replied. Then he added, "We need to plan our next move."

Malcolm put his irritation with Archer to one side and considered tactics. First of all, he needed intelligence. "How big is the Klingon ship?"

"It's small but well-armed. A scout ship, possibly."

"Crew complement?"

"We detected twenty three biosigns." Archer grunted and shifted his position again. "Thinking about numbers - some must still be on their ship. If we had weapons, we could pick off those on Enterprise and the Facility one by one."

"Hmm. _If_ we had weapons. And we'd need to do it without their vessel knowing. A couple of well-placed shots before Enterprise is re-taken and under way, and she'll be history." Malcolm thought it was all sounding like a very tall order indeed.

Archer said heavily, "I don't think they'd stop at that. There were several mining vessels nearby, not to mention the Facility itself - all potentially at risk. And they might resort to using hostages against us. This is going to be difficult. The first thing we need to do is get some weapons. You know your way around here. Any suggestions, Malcolm?"

Malcolm had had enough! He said icily, each syllable meticulously present, "I know I am officially part of Starfleet again, and that you outrank me, but stop calling me that. Reed will do, or Lieutenant if you want to annoy me." And there was no way he was going to call Archer 'Sir'. He wondered if he'd noticed that yet.

Archer said, flustered, "Uh, I'm sorry. I guess I… Uh, about the Starfleet part…"

"There is nothing to discuss," Malcolm snapped back, rocking around to face in Archer's direction and fighting down his anger. He would work with the man to deal with the immediate situation, but that was as far as it went. He certainly didn't want to listen to any lame justification Archer might have concerning him being shanghaied.

"There is. It's a-"

The man never gave up! "No. I absolutely refuse," Malcolm spat out, "and, at the moment, you are not best placed to order me. So let's just concentrate on our current predicament, shall we?"

Archer said tightly, "If you insist."

"I do."

The silence closed in on them, stretching uncomfortably long while they both took stock.

Archer was the one to break it. He said calmly, "This is a good hiding place, but we have to make a move, take the initiative - and soon. We need to find somewhere else from where it's easier to hit back at them. You said something about dead spots in the refinery section. What about there?"

Malcolm had cooled down and was ready to focus again on the immediate problem. "The refinery is on the other side of the station. I don't think we'd make it. And that's where they'd expect us to be, as I said." He chewed at his lower lip, deep in thought.

"Damn."

"There is another possibility. We're very close to part of the accommodation section. We could get into a room there. Our biosigns would show up, of course, but the Klingons might ignore them. We'd look like a couple of the normal residents, staying in our quarters."

"Interesting," murmured Archer. "Would there be weapons there?"

"Not officially, no, but we might strike it lucky. There could be cutting gear, as well. It's a long shot, though."

"Let's do it."

Malcolm nodded. "Okay. There should be another service door a bit further along from here, in the other wall. If I'm right, it opens opposite a set of living quarters."

They scrambled the few painful metres to the next service door, feeling their way in the dark. Malcolm was beginning to fear he had made a mistake, but then, at last, he detected the outline of the door under his questing fingertips. "We're there," he whispered, listening for movement in the corridor outside. "I can't hear anything."

"Me neither," said Archer. "Go ahead."

Malcolm felt for the release and popped the service door open. They were safe - the corridor was empty. And he had been correct - there were living quarters along its length. They made for a door directly across from the service door. Archer gave it a sharp knock. There was no response.

"Empty, I would imagine," Malcolm muttered as he began fiddling with the lock. For all their cautiousness, most miners used old spec security and it took mere moments for him to gain access. The two men slipped in and slumped back in relief against the wall as the door shut behind them.

"Who lives here?" asked Archer, poking around the cramped room. There wasn't much to see. It was sparsely furnished - a bunk, a desk with its terminal and a chair, and that was about it.

Malcolm looked about for clues. The few personal items on the shelf over the bunk meant nothing to him. "I don't know. Probably someone who crews on one of the mining vessels most of the time."

"They don't seem to have left any weapons or useful tools lying around. Looks like we'll have to put up with these restraints for a bit longer." Archer raised his arms and gazed at them in distaste.

"If we could get to my workroom, I could do something about them - and get weapons - but …" Malcolm shrugged.

"But it'll be crawling with Klingons." Archer finished the thought.

Malcolm grimaced. The idea of Klingons messing about with his things was unpalatable. He hated to think what a state they would leave everything in. Collapsing onto the chair next to the desk, he pulled a face at the barren room. "We could try the other living quarters around here for tools or weapons, but we'd only have an outside chance at best, and we run the risk of being noticed if we work our way through them. We'd do better concentrating on the work areas, but it's going to be a problem getting to that part of the Facility without the Klingons spotting us."

Archer dropped down on the bunk, finally able to stretch out properly. As he worked his limbs to get rid of the kinks, he said, "We can't stay here forever and let the Klingons have a free hand."

Malcolm nodded. "I know. But it won't do any good to let them catch us, either." He let out a heavy sigh. How could two men - weaponless and partially restrained - go up against a ship-full of heavily-armed Klingon warriors… and win?

* * *

TBC 


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: see Chapter 1.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 13**

Malcolm had had enough of sitting still, brooding on the uneven odds. He needed to kick-start his brain into gear again, and the best way to do that was to wear out the deckplating. He jumped up from the chair and started pacing, happily ignoring Archer's pointed looks. That was one good thing about his current situation in Starfleet. There wasn't much more he could do that would land him in any deeper trouble. Not pandering to Archer's sensibilities - quite the opposite, in fact - was proving quite rewarding in its own way. Pandering! He snorted. Bailey would be highly amused by that particular phrasing.

Archer gave a small sigh of exasperation, but wasn't foolish enough to get into another confrontation. He tried a different approach - distraction. "Let's run through it again. Perhaps we can find something we've missed."

"Okay." Malcolm slowed but didn't stop.

"The Klingons want me, the forcefield apparatus and you."

Malcolm frowned in concentration. "Possibly me. I think you are the one they really want. They grabbed you first. I think I was just an afterthought."

"Yeah. You may be right. Their initial demands were for me to give myself over to them - that was all - otherwise they would destroy Enterprise. If I agreed to go with them, they said would leave without causing more damage." Archer's head dropped for a moment. "We didn't have a choice - we were vulnerable docked with the Facility."

Malcolm snorted at that bit of idiocy.

Archer said defensively, "Yeah, well, that was a judgement call. It was the easiest way to move that alien in stasis to Enterprise and recover his craft." He grimaced. "I don't know how much time we've got before the Klingons start to make good their threats. I reckon we've got some leeway - they won't want to destroy what they've come to get."

"Yes. That's my take on it, too. Not long, though - Klingons don't strike me as being the most patient of species."

Archer prodded gently at his swollen lip and tilted his head towards Malcolm. "I'm sorry you got dragged into this. The Klingons were after me and saw you as a bonus, I think."

Malcolm stopped pacing. "How did the Klingons know who I was?"

"What?"

"They knew who I was - just grabbed me out of everyone left in the mess hall."

"Well, it seems they knew you were in this sector. Perhaps they ID'ed you from your picture?"

Malcolm considered this suggestion. "Possibly, but it wasn't included in my published research paper. And the Klingons would know I'd left Starfleet if they read it - it said so in the brief biography. Why would they look for me in uniform?"

"I don't know. But what does that matter now?"

"Yes. You're right." Malcolm resumed his endless marching once more. "So, we know what they want, and we know we'll have to be quick - they have the threat to Enterprise to make us behave."

"Enterprise, the Facility, the mining vessels," intoned Archer.

Malcolm twisted his mouth in frustration. The Klingons held all the cards. "What mining vessels are at risk? How many?"

"Too many," said Archer grimly. "I don't know which ones. They were ordered to hold position. Otherwise the Klingons said they will destroy them."

"Damn." Malcolm gave up pacing and sat down. The Klingon restraints on his wrists were heavy and he was sick of lugging them around. He rested his tired arms on the desk. It was bad enough having Enterprise facing the Klingon threat, but for the miners to be caught up in it, also - that made it ten times worse. They weren't warships! They carried a single pulse cannon, two at most, and low-powered at that. Frustrated, he smacked the restraints down hard on the table top, ignoring the shooting pain that induced. In front of him, the terminal's display flickered into life in answer to the jarring. Malcolm gazed at the station logo, thinking about the Mariposa and the other ships he had crewed on since he had arrived at the Facility. Which of them were endangered by the Klingons?

"Damn," he said again, faintly. He turned to Archer, blinking rapidly and hardly believing it. "You know - I think I've had an idea."

"Oh?" Archer didn't sound very excited.

Malcolm's face became animated as he thought it through. "This terminal is active. It's a stationwide network, but it also gives short-range comm access to vessels docked at the Facility or nearby. We can find out exactly who is out there." He looked at Archer, searching for his reaction to this revelation.

Archer pulled a discouraging face. "The Klingons would detect any transmissions."

"Uh huh. No they won't. Not if we're careful. This is a highly directional system - narrow, confined beams so it can work at low power. We can contact the miners and get them to fight back."

Archer frowned. "I didn't think any of the mining vessels were armed?"

"Not as such, no. Not any real offensive capabilities. But - we use what little they do have to work together, and that gives us a single, highly distributed weapons array!" Malcolm broke into a broad grin. "The Klingons won't know which one to deal with first, and, in the meantime, if all goes well, they'll have been hit from every direction virtually simultaneously." He gazed in stunned amazement at Archer, taken aback by his own vision.

Archer stared at him, his mind processing the proposal. Then he said, "We need to find out if there are enough ships out there. I know the Mariposa is around because I just spoke to Gomez. I've no idea about the rest."

"The Mariposa! Excellent!" said Malcolm, turning to the terminal.

----------------------

Malcolm's attention was locked on the terminal's display. "The Klingons are spread too thinly to monitor everything," he muttered, trying to reassure himself. As he finished speaking, the 'connect' symbol flashed up. "Got it!" he exclaimed triumphantly, with an excited glance at Archer.

"So far, so good," Archer said, with a raised eyebrow at Malcolm as if to rein in any rash hopes.

Malcolm shook off Archer's dampening attitude. Yes, it was a long shot but he had a good feeling about this, providing they could persuade the miners. Tactically-speaking, it was a good plan. The connect symbol was replaced by another image - that of Bailey.

_"Pan! Where are you?"_ Bailey's usually genial face had been transformed into one of conspicuous anxiety.

"On the Facility," replied Malcolm. "We've given the Klingons the slip - for now."

_"We?"_ queried Bailey.

"Me and Captain Archer," said Malcolm, leaning to one side so Bailey could see his companion. Archer gave a flourish of his hands.

_"Uhh. What happened? What's going on?"_

"There's no time to go into that now. Is Red there?"

Bailey's eyes opened wide and the colour left his face. _"No! No, he's not! I thought he was on Enterprise with you - or with Archer, there, anyway. He was going to do something about how they were treating you."_

Malcolm bit his lip. Gomez had not been amongst the crew crowded into the mess hall. That was very worrying. He recalled the sight of the silent crewman lying dead outside the brig with his innards shot through. Had that been Gomez' fate also? He met Bailey's horrified gaze with his own unsteady one. There was no time now to think about it. He seamlessly converted into operational mode, resolving to deal with Gomez later.

Malcolm straightened up. "Are you in communication with the other mining ships, Mot?"

Bailey didn't answer. His mind was still on his friend, it would seem.

Malcolm spoke more firmly. "Mot. We might be able to do something about the Klingons, but we need to combine our actions."

_"What? What do you want to do?" _Bailey's eyes regained their focus as he turned his concentration on Malcolm.

"If we can somehow slave together the cannon outputs on some of the ships so they work simultaneously, we might be able to hit the Klingon ship where it will hurt - try to force them to withdraw. Which mining vessels are placed so they can targetthe Klingons?"

Bailey nodded his understanding. _"Uhh, let's see."_ He glanced across at something. Malcolm knew he was pulling up a status display that would give positional information. _"Besides the Mariposa, there's the Drunken Duck, Astral Runner, Skylark and Mombassa. They're all in positions where they could get at_ _the Klingons. Possibly the Katrina also, if she 'accidentally' drifts a bit. Would that be enough? I'm transmitting the info to you now."_

Malcolm performed some rapid mental calculations. Some time ago, he had carried out modifications on the Mariposa's cannon to increase its output, and he knew the 'Duck' had a dual system. If they could involve all the ships Bailey had listed, that should be enough and give them a useful margin. However, if any of them declined, then they could be in trouble.

"Yeah, Mot. That should do the trick. We'll need everyone to agree, though. Can you talk to them? Short range, highly directional ship-to-ship should be virtually undetectable."

Bailey nodded. _"Yeah. Leave it with me."_

Malcolm needed to say more. "Look, Mot. There is a risk involved. If it doesn't come off - and there is a chance it won't - the Klingons might turn on the mining ships, too. They've got much greater firepower than you and are more manoeuvrable. They would probably be able to take everyone out."

Not surprisingly, that prospect disturbed Bailey, judging by his unsettled reaction. He swallowed and said,_ "What happens if we don't do anything? Leave the Klingons alone?"_

Malcolm said, "I don't know. Odds are they'll leave with what they came for - once they find it. Perhaps they might shoot up Enterprise as well, and the Facility, but then that would invite retaliation. My bet is they'll leave it all in one piece - including your ships."

_"And they've come for…?"_

Malcolm glanced at Archer. "Captain Archer, my forcefield apparatus if they can disable the field in time and-" He snapped his mouth shut. This had to be decided coolly. He didn't want any emotional response to cloud Bailey's judgement.

But Bailey had picked up on it. He said slowly, _"And you, as well, Pan? To go with your stuff? Don't deny it. I can see they've got their 'jewellery' on you as well as him."_

"Yeah. Me as well, possibly. I really don't know."

_"Okay. I'll talk to everyone. Count the Mariposa in. I'll do my best to get the others to agree, but I'll have to tell them about the risks, too."_

"I understand. Call me back when you've spoken to them. We have to move quickly if we're going to do this."

_"Understood. Mariposa out." _

The screen went blank. Malcolm sighed. All they could do now was wait. He had to find some way to explain to the miners how to interconnect their cannon controls and where the Klingons' most vulnerable spots were. He could put together some diagrams that would suffice. He rubbed his hands over his head, heartily fed up with the damned restraints.

"Lieutenant?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think they'll go along with it?"

Malcolm considered the people involved. "I don't know, to be frank. It could go either way." He started organising the data, then remembered Bailey's concern. He turned to Archer. "What's happened to Gomez?"

Archer sighed. "I don't know. He did come on board Enterprise, but I thought he had already left when the Klingons attacked us. He was quite… determined… to see me and Commodore Trent. He pleaded your case."

"Unsuccessfully, I take it?" said Malcolm sarcastically.

"What do you expect, huh?" said Archer in indignation. "What on earth possessed you to go after Trent like that? You do realise you may have caused him permanent injury." He glared at Malcolm.

Malcolm shrugged. "I got angry."

"The Malcolm Reed I knew would have had more self-control than that."

"Yeah, well, perhaps you never really knew me."

Archer said quietly, "Or perhaps you've changed."

Malcolm scowled at this amateur analysis session. "I've got to get on with this," he said, turning his back on Archer to work on the plan.

----------------------

The miners were poised, ready to experience their minutes of glory. Everyone available had unreservedly agreed to take part. They were used to facing danger in their day-to-day lives. This was a different type of animal, but the principle was the same. Sometimes you just had to accept the risks and get on with it. They had been helped along by the Klingons' arrogant attitude. The miners didn't take kindly to interference from anybody, and the Klingons had stamped their authority on each one of them. This was payback time.

Malcolm ran through his scheme a final time. It was as good as he could make it in the short timescale. He nodded at Bailey's image on the display. "Okay, Mot. Go for it, and good luck!"

_"Thanks, Pan. See you soon!"_

The display reverted to the station logo.

"Let's go," said Archer, already disappearing through the door.

Malcolm jumped up and ran to take point, to lead them to his workroom and finally discover what horrors the Klingons had perpetrated there.

----------------------

Malcolm and Archer approached Malcolm's workroom with caution. They paused at a bulkhead, taking advantage of the small amount of cover it provided, one on each side of the corridor and keeping low. Crouching down, pressed against the wall, Malcolm felt this was almost like old times. His senses were racing on hyper-alert, making the mundane surroundings more vividly present in his perception than they had ever been before.

Indistinct conversation drifted out through the workroom door to their position. Malcolm couldn't catch the exact words, but the sounds were unmistakable. It was Klingon language and several speakers were present.

'How many?' Malcolm soundlessly asked Archer. Archer shrugged and held up three, then four fingers.

That tallied with Malcolm's estimate. There could be more that hadn't spoken yet. Malcolm had hoped that the imminent miners' attack would distract the Klingons, so that he and Archer could make a move against the intruders, but there were probably too many of them to confront directly. So - that was his forcefield equipment gone, if they had figured out how to shut it down.

There was a louder exchange of Klingon speech. Then clearly, in translated English, "We shall not forget."

"I know," came the answer.

Archer mouthed 'Trent' at Malcolm, but Malcolm had already come to that conclusion. The rough quality Trent's voice now held was distinctive.

A glimpse of a figure leaving the workroom caused Malcolm to shoot to his feet, ready to slam into him or take flight. But it was Trent. Malcolm waited, poised on his toes, and registering that Archer was also standing and at his side. How many Klingons would follow Trent?

Trent's shocked expression when he saw Malcolm and Archer was accompanied by a slight gasp. Archer lifted his hands to put a warning finger to his lips and then pointed significantly at the workroom door.

Trent shook his head and said, "They've left. There's no one else here. They transported out."

Archer said, "Did they get the apparatus? What did they say?"

Malcolm was already through the door. His workroom was a mess. He looked about in sick dismay. There were parts strewn all over the floor, drawers and doors open, tools all over the place. And where his distributed emitter array once was laid out - nothing. A big, empty nothing.

"They got it all right," Malcolm said tightly. In a stride, he was at the cabinet where he kept his data chips. They were gone, too. He swore quietly. All that work - in the grubby hands of the Klingons. He had data back-ups kept elsewhere, but still… they had it all, if they could break his encryption. He was under no illusions there, either, given enough time. He threw an angry glance at Archer and said bitterly, "They've taken the equipment, my data, my explosives work…"

Trent said, "They've also taken Tucker."

"What!" exclaimed Archer, whirling to face him, chalk-white.

Malcolm's stomach lurched. "Trip?" he whispered, appalled.

Trent said, "The Klingons made him shut down the forcefield, and then they transported away with him and the other things."

Malcolm felt like he'd been kicked in the gut. He had escaped from the Klingons and so they had grabbed Trip instead. Why hadn't he foreseen that would happen? Some friend he was.

A short-lived judder shook the structure of the station and Malcolm back into tactical mode. "That's a stray shot," said Malcolm, looking at Archer. "The miners must be engaging the Klingon vessel."

"Commodore, do you have your communicator?" asked Archer.

"No. They took it."

"Lead the way, Lieutenant," said Archer to Malcolm.

"Yes, sir." Malcolm set off at a run, adrenaline pumping. He realised that he had broken his vow not to show Archer any undeserved respect, but that slip was too petty to worry about right now. Now he had to use all his skills and efforts to rescue Trip.

Malcolm took them by the shortest route, but it was some minutes before they arrived at the docking port. He slowed at the final turn, and warily peered around. There were no Klingon sentries, which was promising. He gave an encouraging nod to the other two and they crept onto Enterprise, keeping a sharp lookout.

An Engineering crewman ran around the corner and skidded to a halt as he saw the party.

"What's happening?" barked out Archer.

"The Klingons have all transported away, sir. Weapons and engines are offline."

"Bring cutting gear to the bridge," said Archer, holding up his hands to display the restraints. The crewman took one look and sped off on his mission.

"Come on," muttered Archer, leading the way to the nearest turbolift.

----------------------

The bridge was full of activity, although not yet fully-manned. There was a noticeable pause in the commotion as Archer strode onto his bridge, and many relieved glances between the crew as they saw their captain's safe return.

"Report," shouted Archer, cutting through the bustle and swinging about to check on which personnel were present.

The helmswoman said, checking through her data log, "Several of the mining vessels gave concerted fire, sir. The Klingons on board Enterprise transported to their ship. There was a short battle and the Klingons left at warp. We don't have engines yet."

"Any damage to the miners?" said Malcolm, automatically moving to the tactical station - presently unmanned - to see what information that might yield. Nothing, of course, he realised in exasperation after a couple of keystrokes. He should have known. He didn't have the necessary authorisations anymore, did he?

The helmswoman checked her data log and turned to answer Malcolm. "Some damage has been sustained by mining vessels, sir, but they all appear to be reporting that no assistance is required from us."

Malcolm briefly closed his eyes in relief. He had been prepared to take the ultimate responsibility for any disaster flowing from his plan, but he was thankful he didn't have to.

"What about the Klingon ship?" asked Archer.

"I think it was damaged, sir. It looks like its engines and weapons took hits, but I can't be more precise."

Archer moved to the situation area at the rear of the bridge, where Trent was already studying read-outs, and opened a comm link. "Archer to Engineering - report."

_"Hess, here, sir. The Klingons have attempted to sabotage the engines - warp and impulse. It will take time to fix. Days rather than hours, sir. I'm sorry."_

Archer grimaced at this bad news. "Damn. Thank you. Let me have a full status report when you can. Archer out."

The turbolift door opened to reveal Waters, who went straight over to Archer to present his report. "Weapons non-operational, sir. Three fatalities." Waters' gaze fell on Malcolm and he immediately drew his phase pistol, moving to get a direct line on him.

Malcolm shook his head in disbelief. He was nicely secured by the hefty Klingon cuffs, they had to work together to go after Trip, and this idiot still couldn't see the wood for the trees.

Waters jerked his pistol towards the tubolift. "Back to the brig, Reed."

Malcolm defiantly stood his ground. "We have to find a way to follow the Klingons. They've got Commander Tucker."

This unexpected news was received in dismayed consternation by the bridge crew. Waters looked shocked and then disbelieving, but Archer confirmed Malcolm's bald announcement.

"Yes," said Archer, projecting his voice to ensure all heard. "I'm afraid that is the case. The Klingons transported Commander Tucker to their ship from the mining Facility, together with some equipment." He looked about at the more senior officers gathering around the situation display table. "I need to know where we stand, people. Lieutenant Reed - I want your input, too." Archer gestured to Waters to re-holster his weapon and Waters complied with ill-grace, much to Malcolm's amusement.

As Archer received reports from the rest of the crew, a crewman carefully cut away the Klingon restraints with a plasma torch. Finally free, Archer rubbed his wrists vigorously. Malcolm was next to be released. Waters scowled at him, no doubt wishing he could be made to keep them on, but as the Captain took no notice, there wasn't much Waters could do about it. Malcolm gave him a scornful smile, causing Waters' expression to darken further.

Archer frowned as he consolidated the reports and reached an unhappy conclusion. "Enterprise won't be able to get under way for two days. By then the Klingons' warp trail will have dispersed. What about the mining vessels, Lieutenant Reed? Can we pursue with one of them?"

Malcolm shook his head. "They're too slow. There are no cargo ships or traders due, either. The only ship that might be able to track the Klingons is the Facility's transport, Carlotta - although even her speed may be insufficient."

"Carlotta, right. We'll use her," said Archer, as Hoshi arrived on the bridge. "Lieutenant Sato, ask the Facility Chief Administrator to come on board - his name's Young. Tell him we need to have his transport vessel."

"I'll put an assault team together," said Waters, setting his shoulders to emphasise his determination.

Malcolm said to him, "She's only a small ship and not well-armed. There's no point in having an assault team. It has to be only two or three people. Besides, full repair teams are needed here, on Enterprise."

Waters scoffed, "Then what good is that? How can we attack the Klingon ship?"

Malcolm said, with some acidity, "We don't! Carlotta locates the Klingon vessel and sends a tight-beam signal back with its position. Enterprise follows up when her systems are operational." Malcolm thought that was all painfully obvious and his opinion of Waters took another dive.

Archer nodded. "That sounds workable. Commodore - any thoughts?"

Trent replied, "No, Captain. I'll leave the operational details to you. Who will man the vessel?"

"I will," said Malcolm immediately. "Lieutenant Waters is needed here to restore weapons."

"You're under arrest, don't forget," said Waters, clearly irritated by Malcolm's attempt to order him about. "You're not going anywhere except back to the brig."

Malcolm sniffed dismissively. "The Carlotta's sensors aren't sensitive enough to track a warp trail. I have suitable equipment that can be used - with one proviso: I'm the one operating it."

Waters glared at him. "That sounds like an ideal cover to run away, Reed."

"No. I won't." That idea hadn't even occurred to Malcolm. He had been concentrating on the rescue.

"Really? Then why volunteer?"

"Because Commander Tucker is my friend. Besides, I don't think the Facility would be happy to lend you Carlotta. They are quite protective of her." Malcolm gave a cold half-smile at this stretching of the truth.

"We can commandeer her," said Trent, adding his weight to the discussion. "They have no choice in the matter. We can also commandeer your equipment, Reed."

"You could, Commodore," Malcolm said coolly, letting his eyes roam over the bruises on Trent's face and throat. "But, then, I have the access codes. You can't operate it without me."

Waters took a threatening step towards Malcolm and declared, "So - you put your own selfishness against the safety of Commander Tucker?"

Malcolm waited a beat and answered, "On the contrary, I am the best person to undertake this mission - the best chance to get him back."

"You've been out of circulation for over a year. You're rusty," sneered Waters.

Waters contemptuous tone needled Malcolm and he replied with more emotion than he wanted. "Oh yeah? I think I've already demonstrated that's not the case. And I am certainly in practice where my scanner is concerned."

"Gentlemen!" intervened Archer. "This isn't getting us anywhere. Lieutenant Waters - I need you on Enterprise to get weapons up again and I want you available for when we catch up with the Klingons. We might need some accurate shooting."

Waters tore his attention from Malcolm to acknowledge Archer. "Yes, Captain."

Archer pivoted to face Hoshi, who was sitting at her position and listening avidly. "Lieutenant Sato - do you think you can gain access to Lieutenant Reed's scanner? Break the codes?"

Malcolm stiffened. If anyone could, it would be Hoshi.

Hoshi threw Malcolm an apologetic look, before saying, "Yes, Captain, but I can't say how long it might take."

Malcolm tried to keep a calm voice. "And, then, of course, you need someone who really understands the equipment to operate it. It won't be straightforward to follow a warp trail with it - it's not what it is designed to do. And it needs to be done quickly. There's no time for fumbling with instruction manuals, even if there were any available… which there aren't. The more we delay, the more difficult - if not impossible - it becomes."

Archer gave Malcolm a measured look. "I know you'd do your best to secure Commander Tucker's release, Lieutenant. And I take your point about being able to operate your scanner effectively. But you are under arrest - there's no getting around that."

"Captain," said Trent, motioning Archer over to him. "A word, please." The two of them went off to one side to converse in private.

Malcolm watched from his position at the situation display table, his arms wrapped tightly around his body. He truly did think he was the only one who would be able to track the Klingons. His scanner was no toy. It had taken him months to really feel at home with it, and that was on its more standard settings. If he was confined in the brig… Well, he had a horrible feeling none of them would ever see Trip again.

The two senior officers finished their discussion and returned to the others.

"Lieutenant Reed," said Archer, glancing at Trent, "will you give me your word that you will return to custody when this mission is concluded?"

Malcolm froze. The idea of submitting to that again was unattractive, but what alternative did he have? If he said, 'No', then he would be back in the brig in an instant.

"Lieutenant? I must have your word." Archer was insistent.

Malcolm uncrossed his arms and gave a slight nod. "Yes. I give you my word."

At that moment, a crewman arrived with two people in tow - Young and Bailey.

Malcolm caught Bailey's anxiously probing gaze and, with a guilty start, he realized the worry about Trip had driven Gomez' fate from his mind.

"Pan, what happened to Red?" Bailey grabbed at Malcolm's arm.

"I don't know, Mot." Malcolm asked Waters, "Did you find Gomez? One of the miners?"

"I know who you mean. He was still on Enterprise when the Klingons boarded, but I don't know what happened after that."

_"Cargo Bay Two to Captain Archer."_

"Go ahead."

_"Sir, the alien ship has gone. The Klingons took it. We think they took a civilian as well… uhh, Gomez, according to the guard. He was taking a look at it when they turned up."_

"Thank you." Archer closed the comm. He said grimly, "That was timely. So - we have two people to retrieve, the forcefield data and equipment and that alien ship. We're going to be busy."

Malcolm saw with alarm how unsteady Bailey had grown. He said, "Mot, are you okay? Do you want to sit down?"

"No. I'll be all right in a moment." Bailey breathed deeply and rested his hand on the display table.

Turning to the Facility Administrator, Archer said, "Mister Young, we need to use Carlotta to pursue the Klingons. They've abducted one of my officers and your Mister Gomez. Enterprise can't go after them yet - we need repairs."

Young rubbed his chin, as if deep in thought, and said, "Uhh… I don't know… We use Carlotta all the time. And what if she gets damaged? Or destroyed?"

Archer's taut face muscles betrayed his concern as he said, "I am sure Starfleet will more than adequately compensate you should that be the case."

Young drummed his fingers on the table while everyone waited for his response. Malcolm caught Bailey's eye and gave a slight shrug. He knew this for what it was - Young's attempt to gain some advantage for himself. He wasn't mistaken in that supposition.

As if suddenly coming to a decision, Young brushed his hair back and said, "Tell you what, you can charter her. I've got the rates set out here." He dug in his pocket for a chip, which he set down on the table with a clatter.

Even Malcolm, who was used to this hard-nosed attitude, was taken aback. The other Starfleet officers were horrified.

Trent said icily, "We can commandeer her - at no payment."

"Starfleet does not have jurisdiction here," growled Young. "No payment then she's not available. Sorry."

Bailey exploded. He slammed a hand on the table and cried, "Stop it! We need to get going. Every moment we argue about this, the further they get away. Stop this nonsense, Young! Your life won't be worth living when I tell the others how you're refusing to help Red."

Young shot back at him, "I'm not refusing to help Gomez, so don't you go spreading stories, Bailey. We need to be covered, that's all. It's expensive keeping the Facility in good order." Young scowled at Archer and then scooped up his chip and rammed it back in his pocket. He said sullenly, "Okay, you can use Carlotta, providing Starfleet makes good any damage or gives us a new replacement if that's not possible. Also, someone from the Facility needs to go along. I don't trust Starfleet."

"But this is a rescue mission, Mister Young," said Archer, clearly struggling to maintain his composure. "It's dangerous. Do _you_ want to face the Klingons again?"

"No. But that's my condition." Young set his mouth in a stubborn line.

"I'll be on board," said Malcolm. "Surely that's sufficient? I've crewed on her before for a supply run."

Young weighed him up. "You're not based at the Facility anymore, are you, Reed? You're wearing a Starfleet uniform - and an officer, huh? Although the rumour is you aren't exactly happy with the idea. Still - I don't trust Starfleet, even if it is you."

Bailey said, "I'll go. No - no arguments, Pan. I need to do something otherwise I'll go out of my mind."

"Very well," said Archer, pushing matters along before any further arguments could be raised. "We'll proceed on that basis. Mister Young, Mister Bailey - please prepare Carlotta."

"My scanner is in my cargo area on the Facility," said Malcolm. "That has to be put on board."

"We'll get that, too," assured Bailey. "I know where it is. Don't worry - I'll be as quick as possible."

Bailey hustled Young off the bridge, eager to sort everything out.

Archer looked around at the gathered officers. "We need one more person for Carlotta," he said. "Someone on behalf of Starfleet."

Malcolm had a horrible suspicion that he was going to be landed with Waters on their pursuit of the Klingons. If it took a declaration of his attachment to Starfleet to avoid that fate, he could swallow his resentment for a few minutes. He said indignantly, "Don't you trust me, Captain? I thought I was Starfleet now?"

Archer said mildly, "I need someone else as well."

Trent said, "Why don't you go, Captain? I can command here. All the crew will be fully occupied carrying out repairs, and we need someone with plenty of experience to lead the mission."

Archer looked surprised, then nodded his head in agreement as he thought the suggestion through. "That's a good idea, Commodore. I would appreciate that, sir."

Malcolm sighed inwardly but managed to keep a straight face. It was marginally better than Waters… or, God forbid, Trent. No - Trent had too much sense to be cooped up in a small vessel with him. Shame that! Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. He gave a half-grin as he again studied the satisfying bruises adorning Trent's jaw. His eyes travelled down Trent's body. Archer hadn't been specific about the 'possible permanent injury'. He knew where he had hit the man. Was it that damage to the larynx or could it be…?

Malcolm looked up and slammed straight into Trent's icy gaze. There was a bleak coldness there that Malcolm had seldom seen. His mouth became dry as he recognised an implacable and deadly enemy. One who was perfectly capable of doing whatever it took to get his own back.

Waters stirred and said, "Captain, I strongly recommend that a member of the security team also be included in the mission. Crewman Akrim was hand-picked by me. He would make an excellent addition."

Malcolm shifted his attention to Waters. He was another prospect altogether - an anxious armoury officer concerned for his reckless captain. Malcolm knew the signs.

Archer shook his head. "No. We'll be cramped enough as it is, and we won't be attacking the Klingons - just tracking them."

"I was thinking about your personal safety," said Waters with a venomous glare at Malcolm.

Archer was startled. "My personal… Oh. I don't think I need to concern myself with that."

"But, sir!"

"No, Mister Waters. I am quite capable of looking after myself, and Lieutenant Reed has given his word."

"Sir!" Waters looked like he was going to burst a blood vessel.

Malcolm ran a hand over his mouth as he enjoyed the entertaining exchange.

"For the third time, no!" said Archer. "Now, we need weapons available as soon as possible, so get working on them, Lieutenant." Archer raised an eyebrow at Malcolm, who was having difficulty disguising his amusement. "Mister Reed, download the scanned data we got of the Klingon vessel. Transfer it to Carlotta's database."

Malcolm nodded and followed Waters from the situation area in the direction of the turbolift, laughing inwardly at the tight muscles bulging at the back of Waters' neck. Unable to resist, and knowing exactly what weapon to choose, Malcolm said quietly, "I see you haven't figured out how to manage the Captain yet, Waters. Fancy a few tips?"

Waters half-turned and keeping his own voice low, said, "Shut it, Reed. You better not harm him, or…" He left the threat hanging.

"You're not up to the job. You can't even get him to agree to a simple security precaution." Another jab getting home, thought Malcolm, with a sly smile.

Waters face was bright red as he turned to fully face Malcolm. He hissed, "If I had my way, you'd be rotting in irons!"

"How melodramatic!" replied Malcolm, with a derisive snort. "I'll give you one tip for free," he whispered, ladling on more provocation. "A _good_ tactical officer always keeps a cool head."

Waters snarled savagely, "That explains why you lost it with the Commodore then, huh?"

Malcolm glared at him. "I knew what I was doing!"

"That sounds like an admission," retorted Waters with satisfaction.

The low voices had been forgotten and neither man was paying any attention to their surroundings. Archer's angry arrival between them took both men by surprise.

"What's going on?" Archer rapped out, bringing his full authority to bear. "I've had enough of this behaviour. Trip and Gomez are counting on us, and I don't expect this attitude. You have your orders - both of you. Get on with them!"

"Yes, sir!" said Waters smartly, moving to stand at attention. He turned and stepped into the turbolift without a backward glance.

"Mister Reed?"

Malcolm nodded his acknowledgement and turned away. He thought he'd won that battle and felt quite pleased with himself. He went over to Hoshi. "Can you let me have access to the scans of the Klingon ship? I don't have the authorisations."

"Sure." She effortlessly brought them up. "Shall I send all the data over to Carlotta?"

Malcolm cast a quick eye over the data. It all seemed to be useful stuff. "Yes, please, Hoshi."

She tapped away. "I think the mining vessels and the Facility might have some additional readings. Shall I add those in as well, if I can get hold of them?"

"Yes. That would be great."

Hoshi frowned at him. "You know, Malcolm, you really shouldn't antagonise Waters like that. You need all the friends you can get. You shouldn't be creating enemies!"

"Huh! We would never be friends in a million years, whatever the circumstances. Anyway, I didn't start that."

Hoshi lifted a sceptical eyebrow and pointed to her ear. "I think you've forgotten how good my hearing is!"

Malcolm grinned sheepishly. "Well - he started it over in the situation area."

Hoshi tutted in mock censure. Then she said, "Malcolm, I wanted to get to talk to you-" She broke off as Archer walked over.

"Have you got the data, Mister Reed?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Very well. Make your way to the airlock. Get what equipment we might need sent there, too. I'll meet you there shortly."

Malcolm nodded and, with a quick grin and a wink to Hoshi, went to carry out his tasks.

* * *

TBC 


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: see Chapter 1.

A/N: Thank for the reviews. I appreciate every one!

I enjoyed writing this story, and I'm pleased that there are people out there who are still following it and (presumably!) enjoying it, too:-)

* * *

**Chapter 14 **

Malcolm made straight for the pilot's position on Carlotta, only stopping to deposit his kit in one of the cabins. Bailey had grabbed the other cabin, which left the pull-down bunk in the corridor for Archer. Malcolm thought it would be an interesting exercise to see if Archer pulled rank on him.

As Malcolm worked through the pre-flight checks, Bailey appeared in the doorway of the flight deck with his scanner.

"Where do you want it, Pan?"

Malcolm looked about and stabbed a finger at a likely place. "It'll fit in that corner over there. Hook it up to Carlotta's main system. Can you see how it goes?"

"Yeah. No problem." Bailey gently set the scanner down and eased it into position under Malcolm's watchful eye.

Satisfied that Bailey was going to treat the scanner with proper respect, Malcolm got back to finalising the pre-flight checks. There were a couple of red lights on non-essential systems that had always been there, as far as he could tell, but any important systems were functioning within acceptable parameters.

Archer crowded onto the flight deck. "That's it - supplies, weapons, everything… all on board. We can go as soon as you like, Lieutenant."

"Just making the final checks," said Malcolm, peering at another red-liner. That one was okay, too - that was only a back-up nav that wasn't in use any more. The upgrade was better.

Archer saw it, though. "What's that?"

"Nothing."

"Lieutenant?"

"It should have been removed when the new system replaced it, but no one bothered. It really doesn't matter."

"Oh." Archer slid into the co-pilot's seat next to Malcolm and glanced around at the sorry state of the flight deck, frowning more than a little.

Ignoring Archer's reaction, Malcolm gave the instrumentation a final skim over. He flicked off some of the more distracting warning-lights and said, "Right. That's all okay. Now, we just need to connect my scanner up."

"Oh," said Bailey from behind, sitting back on his heels. "Something strange happened there. It says: 'Code invalid. Access denied'. I don't understand. I haven't even entered one in yet." He scratched at the back of his head in puzzlement.

Malcolm gave a smug smile over his shoulder. "That's okay. It's supposed to do that. Puts people off."

"Huh. It works," said Bailey. "What do I put in then?"

"Input the code as three series," instructed Malcolm. "First one: nineteen, four, fifteen eighty-seven. Second one: twenty-one, ten, eighteen oh five. Third: twenty-two, three, twenty-one, twenty-one."

Bailey tapped in the digits as Malcolm recited each sequence. A slow smile spread across Bailey's face when the last numbers were entered. He looked up and reported, "Done. All up and operational."

"Good. I'll access the main scanner menu from the pilot's position to tie it in to the sensor system." Malcolm verified the connection to Carlotta's systems, giving a satisfied nod as he confirmed it was established. It was time for his scanner to deviate from its comfort zone and try a new experience - warp trail residues.

Malcolm ran through the options, manipulating and tweaking the scanner settings. His first attempt didn't work properly, but he was pretty sure the next one would do the trick. After a few adjustments, he set the scanner running again and was pleased to see it was behaving as he had expected.

"Is it working?" asked Archer.

"I believe so," murmured Malcolm, absorbed in the readings coming in. "It'll take a some time to acquire the data. It's quite accurate but slower than Enterprise's scanners, obviously."

Archer nodded. After a few minutes' silence, he said, "Uh, your access codes sounded like dates."

"Yes. They are." Malcolm watched the data building up as they talked.

"Isn't that… insecure?" Archer sounded perplexed. "What are the dates? Battles?"

Malcolm couldn't help a small grin. It was no wonder Archer was confused, given the emphasis he'd put on the security of his codes during the planning of their rescue mission. Malcolm replied briskly, "They are battles, yes. The first date is Drake's attack on the Spanish fleet at Cadiz, then Nelson's brilliant victory at Trafalgar, and, well, the third one is the secure one. It's a date during the Polynesian Emergency."

Archer settled back and considered Malcolm. "Wouldn't someone who knows you - like Hoshi, say - be able to figure them out pretty quickly… the first two, anyway? I can't say the third means anything."

"Well, normally, Hoshi isn't around!" said Malcolm, with a wry lift of an eyebrow. "And to be honest, around here, only miners would want to get at my scanner, and I don't think they'd get very far trying to break the codes, so I indulge myself. I set the level to meet the conditions. Don't imagine I was so reckless serving on Enterprise! In any case, I do regularly change them. There's plenty of choice for auspicious dates. Victories… well… mostly." Malcolm sobered as he thought about his number three. He turned away from Archer to deter further conversation and concentrated on his work. Every minute could be vital and he didn't want any distractions.

Eventually, the accumulated data reached a level sufficient for the scanner to start producing useful results. Malcolm checked the various displays and said, "All set. We're ready to go." Without waiting for any order, he initiated the engine sequences, impatient to begin the chase.

Archer commed Enterprise to inform them they were about to leave.

_"Good luck, Captain,"_ said Trent_. "Enterprise will be safe with me. We'll see you soon. Trent out."_

Archer said, "Right then, Lieutenant. Let's get on our way."

Malcolm broke into a relieved smile as a clear well-defined track manifested itself on his display. His scanner was up to the job, not that he had any real doubt, but it was nice to have confirmation. He ramped up the engines, and made a final report back to the Facility Admin.

Young grumpily acknowledged him. _"…And don't wreck the inertial dampers this time, Reed."_

"I'll do my best," said Malcolm, setting the heading and watching the speed grow as Carlotta began her new role as hunter.

----------------------

Carlotta had been on her mission for several hours, and now Malcolm had the flight deck to himself. The readings fluctuated, but he found that he could compensate to keep the wake of the Klingon ship in their sights. He wasn't happy, though. The Klingons had been travelling at a higher warp speed than Carlotta could manage. They were beginning to draw away, which meant the track was becoming less distinct. The scent was fading.

Malcolm tried adding another subroutine to the analyser. That generated a satisfyingly distinct spike ahead of them. However, he wasn't sure for how long that trick would work. But they had no alternative. It would just have to work - that was all there was to it. He ran a weary hand over his face.

A clatter from behind caused him to glance over his shoulder. Archer.

Archer slipped down into the co-pilot's seat next to Malcolm and offered him a mug of coffee. "Thought you might want this. Bailey assures me that this is how you like it."

"Thanks." Malcolm took the mug and tried a cautious sip. "Seems fine," he said, putting it to one side to cool a little.

Archer sipped at his own drink and leaned over to look at the tracking display. "How are we getting on?"

"Okay. I've had to tweak a few things. But I'm worried that the Klingons will get too far ahead before Enterprise catches up with us."

"Not much we can do about that."

"No."

After a few moments silence, Archer said, "I can take over for a while if you want to get some rest."

"No. It's okay. I better keep an eye on the scanner. It needs adjusting from time to time. Why don't you turn in?" Malcolm willed Archer to agree. The less time he had to spend with him the better. It would help keep his anger in check so he could concentrate on what was important now - Trip and Gomez.

Archer said, dashing Malcolm's hopes, "I'm not tired. Besides, I'm not sure I can fit on that bunk!"

Malcolm gave him a sideways look.

Archer grinned. "I don't mind, Lieutenant. You can keep the cabin."

"Thanks," grunted Malcolm.

Malcolm let his mind wander, counting on silence to drive Archer away. He was worried about Trip and Gomez. The Klingons wanted Trip so he could explain how the forcefield equipment worked. Gomez… the wrong place and the wrong time, it would seem. Malcolm knew too much about possible methods of persuasion and was apprehensive about what his friends might be about to endure. But he couldn't do anything directly, not yet. Now all he could do was to make sure they didn't lose the trail. He made another tiny adjustment to the equipment.

Archer said, "I was talking to Bailey. He wanted to know if he would still get paid for the alien ship."

Malcolm shrugged. "It's a reasonable question. I want to know as well."

"Why does it all come back to money?"

"He has his reasons. So do I - or at least I did, before Starfleet wrecked my life." Malcolm couldn't keep the resentment from his voice.

Archer took a sip of his coffee. "I was surprised to learn you had gone into mining."

"Why?" Malcolm was wary. He didn't like where this conversation seemed to be heading. Far too personal for his taste, especially considering it was with Archer.

"I dunno. I expected you would want to try something that was more of a challenge, which used your talents." Archer's brow creased in bemusement.

"You don't know anything about mining, do you?" That was apparent. Malcolm snorted and shook his head. Archer had that typical Starfleet ignorance of the world beyond, swanning around thinking he was too good for anyone else.

"I guess not," said Archer, with a small shrug. "But I do know you isolated yourself out here when you could have been helping Earth's development programme. With the problems we've been having lately… and it's not only the Klingons… we need every advantage we can get."

Irritated at this transparent attempt to make him feel guilty, Malcolm said, "Enough, okay? It's not going to happen, especially not now. Apart from anything else, I'll be in jail, won't I?" He pinned Archer with a frosty stare - a look that said quite clearly to leave it alone.

Archer glanced down, running his hand over his mug. He raised his eyes to meet Malcolm's again and said, "I'm sorry about what happened to you. For what it's worth, I had no idea Trent was intending to bring you into Starfleet against your will. And I'm sorry I had to ask you to give your word to return after this is all over. It was the only way Trent would agree to you coming on this mission."

Malcolm said nothing. He turned back to the displays on the console. Aware of Archer staring at him, he studiously kept his attention focussed on the scanner. He maintained a still expression, not giving any encouragement. He wanted to leave, to escape from Archer, but he didn't want to rely on the automated changes for the scanner. He was trapped.

"I think we should talk - properly, I mean," said Archer, putting down his mug.

Not bloody likely, thought Malcolm sourly, directing a hostile glare at Archer.

That should have been sufficient warning, but it seemed Archer didn't want to acknowledge that. In the absence of a vocal response, Archer tried again. "We need to know where we both stand, given what we might be getting into."

"Oh, don't worry. You can rely on me to do my duty," said Malcolm tightly.

"I can?"

"Yes." As if Archer could doubt it, particularly with Trip and Gomez in peril. Malcolm couldn't believe he was hearing this.

"Do we have a problem?" Archer's tone was too calm, too soothing.

"What do you think?" Malcolm was scornful, but he stayed in control, not losing it.

"We did the last time we spoke properly. On Earth."

"Ah, yes, that had slipped my mind." That came laden with sarcasm and a curl of his lip.

"Cut it out, Malcolm!" said Archer sharply.

There was that damned 'Malcolm' again! "Or what? You'll court-martial me for insubordination? You're a little bit late for that, aren't you? Your pal Trent got in there first. I bet you wish you could haul me up on charges, too."

"No! Of course not!" protested Archer.

"Oh? I find that difficult to believe."

"Wait. Look, this isn't what I wanted to say. Just listen, will you?"

Malcolm scowled and turned back to the display. Infuriatingly, no input was required from him. He tapped in an unnecessary parameter change anyway, then deleted it, making a show of being busy. Archer wouldn't know any different.

Archer clasped his hands together in front of him and took a deep breath. "I was angry when we met on Earth to discuss the aliens and the warp coil that we took."

Malcolm supposed the self-knowledge of discovering you were a duplicitous bastard could make you angry. He grunted an affirmative.

Archer said stiffly, "Yeah - I was furious with _you_. What right did you have - do you have - to judge me, huh? You can live by your moral principles, but leave my own conscience to me. It's none of your business."

Spinning from the display, Malcolm crashed his hands against his thighs. "As I see it, there was no interpretation of conscience required," he snapped, jerking his head to one side. "It was quite clear. We attacked those aliens and made no effort to help them later. Black and white. No question."

"According to you."

"Me and most other right-thinking people, I would think, Captain. I stand by what I said then: it was inexcusably immoral. Absolutely despicable."

Archer flushed crimson, his jaws clenched tightly together and his nostrils flared. He didn't say anything for a minute or two as he regained control.

Malcolm was gleefully pleased that his barb had got home. He would be more than happy to take on Archer if he wanted to get into a physical fight. A subtle shift of his weight meant he was best placed to launch an attack if needed.

Archer said, struggling to keep his tone even, "You forget, Malcolm. You are looking at it from your point of view. From where I sit, things were - and still are - a little different."

"Yeah?" Malcolm was deliberately insolent. It was amazing how self-deceiving Archer was.

"For a start, we couldn't mount a meaningful rescue. It would've been a gesture - nothing more."

"Not necessarily," said Malcolm dismissively.

"Oh yeah, it would. You're deluding yourself. You said yourself it didn't matter as long as the attempt was made. So - what would I have achieved, if I had insisted on it, like you were pushing for? My position was already insecure then - yes, even me, the Captain of Enterprise after we'd averted the Xindi threat. Admiral Forrest was under pressure. As his protégé, I was in the firing line, too. The anti-alien faction was already growing, permeating through Starfleet."

Malcolm was scathing. "Oh, how very noble. So, you refused to help those aliens so you could save your own skin - so you could stay in Starfleet - a Starfleet that cares nothing for those it has plundered. Well, forgive me, but I don't want to serve in such an organization." Malcolm flung a disgusted hand at the uniform he was wearing. "What's happened since proves it. It's perverted."

"'It's 'perverted', you say? Starfleet isn't a single homogeneous entity. It's made up of men and women, people, all with their own aims and aspirations. You left - your choice. I didn't feel I had that choice. I decided to stay, to fight from within - to try to improve matters. I fought to keep our connections with aliens open… To use Enterprise to make first contacts, in between fighting off the Klingons and whoever else thought they might take a chunk out of us. You abandoned Starfleet to pursue your own goals."

"Are you saying I ran away?" hissed Malcolm, his voice dangerous.

"Did you?" Archer waved his hand at the window, showing deep space outside the vessel.

Malcolm's murderous anger grew. "I don't have to listen to this-"

"Well, you should!" bellowed Archer. "For once, notice that there may be more than one way that could be right. Just because Malcolm 'God Almighty' Reed decrees something it doesn't mean it's the only right thing to do. Think about it."

Malcolm's mouth was a tight, hard line, his face drained of colour. He was incandescent with rage. His body trembled as he sat crouched on his seat with his hands jammed down on his legs, clutching at them. He dared not move for fear of what he might do.

Archer stood up, towering over Malcolm. "We are on the same side, Malcolm. We always have been." His mouth opened again as if that wasn't all he wanted to say, but then he snapped it shut and turned on his heels to stride off the flight deck.

As soon as Archer was out of earshot, Malcolm slammed his fist down on the control panel, the shock of the impact jarring his entire body. Then he opened his hand and slid it along the surface, pressing down hard. Damn Archer! Who the hell did he think he was? Malcolm cursed - a long skein of invective.

Eventually, his temper lessened and his incoherent, raging thoughts became more measured.

This was no good. He had to concentrate on the mission - chasing Klingons. Archer wasn't important anymore. Malcolm distractedly checked over the scanner, finding it had drifted from optimum setting. Feeling guilty, he reset it.

Then he sat back with a sigh, exhausted. His coffee was cold now, but he knocked it back anyway, wanting the caffeine hit.

He looked out of the window at the stars moving slowly past.

----------------------

Malcolm had regained his equilibrium and was carefully avoiding any thoughts about the row with Archer. He had enough to occupy him. While he sat nursing the scanner, he was also taking the opportunity to carry out a little research into habitable worlds in this sector. There were some major populations not that far away. Places where one could lose oneself, if one had a mind to. Where people didn't ask questions.

Bailey appeared in the doorway. "How's it going, Pan? Ready for a break?"

Malcolm closed down his planetary analysis and stretched, groaning. He turned to Bailey. "We're still tracking them, but it's getting more difficult to acquire the warp trail. I suppose if it gives out all together, we can extrapolate forwards. They don't seem to be making many course changes. I better stay here - make sure we can get the best out of the equipment."

"You should get some rest now, while it's quiet. Who knows what will happen? What if we catch them, or what about when Enterprise reaches us? Show me what to do. If there's any big change, I'll come get you."

Malcolm wavered. It made sense to grab a couple of hours sleep. A catnap would revive him.

"Okay, Mot. Thanks." Malcolm sent off a brief compressed pulse, back to Enterprise's position. That would let them know what direction they were taking. Enterprise wouldn't respond. They didn't want to risk the transmission being intercepted by the Klingons, or anyone else who might be lurking around.

"Where's Archer?" asked Malcolm casually as he carried out a brief final check through the scanner readings.

"He was checking through the gear in the cargo hold."

Malcolm was relieved. He couldn't avoid him forever, but at least Archer was out of the way for now, although it was irritating that he was messing about with their equipment. That was something Malcolm still needed to do - make sure everything was as it should be. Of course, they didn't intend to fight with the Klingons, if they ever managed to catch up with them, but you had to be prepared… just in case.

"Pan - how did you put up with Archer for all that time when you were serving on Enterprise? You can't stand him, can you?"

Surprised at Bailey's perceptiveness, Malcolm shrugged. "We got on fine, on the whole. We've been through a hell of a lot together. It was only after the mission to the Expanse that we had a major falling-out."

"Why was that?"

Malcolm sighed. "A difference of opinion." He gave a wry smile. "As is often the case."

Scrambling to his feet, Malcolm vacated the pilot's seat in favour of Bailey. He gave him a quick run-down on what to look out for, and strict instructions to call him if there was even a remote chance there might be a problem.

As he left the flight deck, the weariness hit him. He hadn't realised how tired he was. That bunk was beginning to seem like a very good idea. He reached the small cabin and dropped down on top of the covers, not even bothering to remove his boots. Deciding on three hours, he set the alarm, turned onto one side and went out like a light.

----------------------

When the alarm went off, Malcolm rolled off his bunk and to his feet. He fumbled with his hair, then had a quick wash. That brief ritual done and more awake, he stumbled forward to the flight deck.

Bailey was still in place at the pilot's position.

"Any problems? Changes?" asked Malcolm, peering across at the displays and satisfied with what he could see.

"Nope. Feel better?"

"Uh huh. I'll go and get something to eat, if you're okay for a bit longer?"

"Sure. No problem. Take as long as you want. Bring me a coffee when you come back."

"Yeah."

Malcolm went to the galley and got himself a sandwich and coffee. As he ate, he considered his confrontation with Archer. The white rage that had consumed him then was gone, to be replaced by a more thoughtful mood.

It still rankled that Archer had essentially accused him of running away. But that had cut deep precisely because he himself suspected that that was what he had done… Well, in part anyway. Mostly he had been driven by a desire to cut loose from an organization he didn't want to be part of anymore and to strike out on his own, to prove he could do it and not be beholden to anyone. He didn't think he had been motivated entirely by negatives.

And Archer…? Archer's disclosure had been a revelation to him. Perhaps he had been too judgmental, too critical? Even if he personally didn't think Starfleet could be swayed from its course, it didn't mean that Archer had been wholly reckless and immoral in staying. Malcolm pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to aid his thought processes. He was still tired, he realised. These types of mental gymnastics were difficult at the best of times and, at the moment, it was a losing battle as far as he was concerned.

As he finished his sandwich, he came to a decision. It was time to call a truce - if Archer would have it after all that had passed between them.

He poured two mugs of coffee and set off in search of his crewmates.

Bailey accepted his drink with enthusiasm, and assured Malcolm that he could quite happily stay on watch a little longer.

Malcolm made his way aft. Carlotta didn't have many places in which to hide and Malcolm found Archer almost immediately. He was in the cargo hold, seated on a container and slumped back against a wad of cushioning material, his eyes closed and his chest moving in a slow rhythm. He looked so peaceful, the worried expression that Malcolm had got used to recently no longer apparent.

Malcolm grinned. That set-up looked more comfortable than the drop-down bunk that Archer was supposed to have allocated to him. He cleared his throat.

Archer awoke with a start. "Uhh, Lieutenant?" He blinked blearily.

"Coffee?" Malcolm raised the mug.

Archer hesitated, then gave a small nod. "Thanks." He sat upright and accepted the mug. "That's good," he said with feeling as he took a draught, breathing in the aroma. "I didn't know how much I needed it."

There was an awkward silence. Malcolm couldn't work out how to offer his olive branch. Archer was trying to appear relaxed, but the tightness of his facial muscles was a giveaway. He took another sip.

"Sorry to wake you up," said Malcolm. It was a lie, but it got the conversation started.

"No. That's okay. I hadn't intended to drop off, actually. How's it going?"

"Still tracking the Klingons."

"Good." Archer was clearly not inclined to speak overmuch.

Still puzzling over how to progress matters, Malcolm saw with pleasure the stash of equipment that they had brought on board with them. He stepped over to examine it: phase pistols, rifles, stun grenades, some of his own explosives and a lot more - all neatly arranged in logical order. With a grin, he picked up a pulse rifle, automatically checking its status. Then he swung it easily up to his shoulder, and swept it around and up to follow an imaginary target. Archer might be grateful for his coffee, but Malcolm appreciated getting his hands on a rifle again. It had been far too long.

He completed his sweep, bringing the weapon down and tucking it under an arm. Noticing Archer's eyes on him, he smiled and patted the barrel. "I might need to get in some practice with this!"

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Archer said, with a cautious laugh, as if unsure how Malcolm might react.

Malcolm replaced the rifle and squatted down to check over the phase pistols. "Why didn't you explain to me, when we argued on Earth, what you told me earlier today? About why you didn't try to persuade Starfleet to help the aliens?"

"Would it have changed your opinion?"

Malcolm put down the weapon he was examining and swivelled on his haunches to face Archer. "No. At least, I still think it was totally wrong not to have gone to their aid. My opinion about Starfleet hasn't changed. I still think I was right to resign."

Archer shrugged. "Well, there you are - what difference would it have made? In any case, we were both very angry when we spoke on Earth. I wasn't about to explain myself to you - to justify myself - after what you said, the attitude you took."

Malcolm stood up and folded his arms. "I don't agree with what you did - siding with Starfleet's assessment and decision. But perhaps I understand now why you did it. You were right - I shouldn't be so quick to condemn, especially knowing you as I do." Malcolm gave a mirthless smile. "I do not hold the patent on the 'one true way'. I should try to remember that."

Archer grunted. He sipped at his drink. "Uhh, I may have been a bit harsh. I wanted to talk to you, but it didn't come out quite how I had planned. And I had no justification to imply that you were… shirking any obligations, that you should have remained in Starfleet. I apologize for that, Mal… Lieutenant."

Malcolm gave him a measured look. "There may be more than a grain of truth in that, Captain," he admitted. "But it's not the whole story, not by any means. And I apologise for anything I said out of turn."

They both relaxed as the atmosphere lifted. It wasn't back to how they had been when they served together, but it was a start.

Malcolm said, with a jerk of his head in the direction of the flight deck, "I better get back to Bailey."

"I'll take helm duty when I've eaten."

"Right. I'll let him know."

Malcolm stepped out into the corridor, and then paused. He said quickly, through the doorway, "I won't object if you want to call me Malcolm, Captain."

He set off at a brisk walk before Archer could reply.

* * *

TBC


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: see Chapter 1.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews.

* * *

**Chapter 15**

"Interesting." Malcolm considered the readings strung out across the display, skilfully switching between the different options to get some cross-checks.

"Not a glitch in your scanner then?" asked Archer from the pilot's position.

Malcolm looked across. "No, Captain. It's working properly. Looks like they were hit harder than we thought."

"Yeah. Kind of a delayed reaction, though."

"Perhaps they think it's safe to slow for repairs now. But why the change in course?"

Archer frowned. "Rendezvous, maybe. There could be a whole fleet of Klingon ships just out of our sight."

Malcolm glanced sharply at him. "Was there any intelligence concerning other Klingon vessels in this sector?"

"No. Not when we left Enterprise. Doesn't mean they're not here now. I'll send Enterprise a burst with the new speed and heading." Archer tapped in the necessary commands to dispatch the message.

Bailey loomed onto the flight deck. "What's happened? Was that a course change?" He anxiously craned to read the displays.

"The Klingons have altered course and slowed," Malcolm reassured him. "We're still following them."

Bailey's worried expression lifted. "Good! They've slowed? So we'll catch up to them soon, huh?"

"I hope not!" said Malcolm. "We're supposed to be marking their position, not getting up close and personal. We haven't got the firepower."

Archer said, "Enterprise will be here soon and will be more than a match for them this time."

----------------------

The three men were crowded onto the flight deck, instruments and sensors abandoned as they stared out of the window at the colourful spectacle in their path. The plasma cloud moved languidly in lazy swirls, blues, greens and the occasional shot of red and pink, spiralling across the backdrop of space like some vast experiment in kinetic art. It filled the entire region ahead of them and to all sides.

"They're in there?" asked Malcolm, sweeping his gaze across the vibrant show.

"So it would appear. That's where the warp trail leads to." Archer tapped at the sensor display in front of the co-pilot's position. "Sensors can't pick anything up."

"No. They wouldn't," agreed Malcolm, tearing his eyes from the scene to check the sensor responses. "The density of the plasma cloud is too high. Sensor range will be significantly reduced. Enterprise's sensor array might be able to make something of it, but we most certainly can't."

"What does the scanner say?" said Bailey, his attention still on the cloud.

"Without decent sensor input, it doesn't matter what analysis it does. Nothing useful," said Malcolm. His eyes flicked to the luminous cloud again. "I hope the Klingons aren't using this to throw us off their trail. We don't know how big this thing is. They might already be through it and out the other side. We'd never know." He folded his arms, trying to think of some way to deal with this foil to the scent.

"I don't think it's a ploy to evade us," said Archer thoughtfully. "How would they even know we're here? Judging by the warp trail decay rates and timing, we've never been close enough for them to detect us."

"So, you think they're hiding here while they make repairs?" said Malcolm.

"It would make sense. They've just been in a fight with Starfleet, kidnapped some humans and won't know exactly what our resources are in this sector." Archer looked at Malcolm, who responded with a considering nod of agreement to this theory.

Archer re-took his position at the helm and cut the engines.

"Captain?"

"We can't go in blind," said Archer with a sigh, pushing away from the helm controls. "Well… we could… but there's no point. Except at short range, we can't track inside the cloud, and inside the cloud we'd also be out of communications contact with Enterprise. We'll wait out here. Enterprise will arrive soon, and I don't want to waste time by having her look for us in there. And we'll know if the Klingons leave - if they resume their original course, anyway, and come out on this side of the cloud."

Malcolm couldn't fault the logic, but it didn't sit easy with him. He gently kneaded his hands together, visualising Trip and Gomez at the mercy of the Klingons - and from what he knew of Klingons, mercy was not one of their most outstanding qualities. Something of his concerns must have shown because Archer raised an eyebrow in query at him.

Malcolm shook his head. "Just thinking about Trip and Red."

Bailey broke away from his contemplation of the plasma cloud. "There must be something we can do! I hate thinking about Red stuck on that Klingon ship and us doing nothing about it." He strode to the rear and slumped down on the spare seat, burying his head in his hands.

"Enterprise should be under way soon," said Malcolm, trying to soothe his own uneasy feelings as much as Bailey's. "And we have done something - we've fulfilled our mission. We've kept tabs on the Klingons and know where they are waiting - or at least, we think we do."

"Yeah. I've sent Enterprise a data burst with the new information," said Archer. He gazed at his two companions. "I hate waiting, too."

----------------------

Malcolm hurried to the flight deck in answer to Archer's summons, leaving a snoring Bailey to his catnap in the lounge. There had been something in Archer's tone that concerned him and he spared only the briefest glance at the plasma cloud's distracting display.

"Captain. What is it?"

Archer swung around. Malcolm could see the tightness in Archer's jaw as he replied. "A message from Enterprise. They've broken transmission silence." Archer paused before delivering the bad news. "They've been further delayed. They're still at Deross Mining Facility and won't be able to get under way for another three days."

"Three days!" Malcolm was aghast. Three days of waiting - more than three days because Enterprise still had to travel here - while Trip and Gomez underwent what kind of torture? He swallowed and asked, "Why the hold up? What's the matter?"

"An engineering problem - the message wasn't specific. There's more. We've been ordered to engage the Klingons."

"Engage them!" Malcolm exclaimed. "That can't be right! What does the Commodore think we've got here? A cruiser!" Carlotta didn't stand a chance. It would be madness to attack the Klingons. They would last mere seconds in combat. Not only would they end up dead - or captured - but who would track the Klingons afterwards? Trip and Gomez would be doomed. Malcolm grimaced and ran a hand through his hair. It was suicide. Useless suicide.

Malcolm glared at Archer. "Exactly what operational experience does Trent have, anyway?" he said scathingly.

Archer said, "Oh, he has put in his years on board ship, but mostly it's been more of a… um… career working in the background, from what I've discovered, as an aide to Admiral Payne."

Malcolm grunted. He knew the type - keeping their hide safe and manipulating the strings of those at the sharp end. The type who thought they were far too clever to waste their time in the mundane routine of a starship. He said, "What if the Klingons leave the plasma cloud? We have to be in one piece so we can track them."

Archer shrugged. "I would lay bets they'll resume their old heading, and Enterprise already knows what that is."

"So - do you agree with this, Captain?" Malcolm was wary, wondering what he could do to alter matters. "You think we should try to attack them?"

"It's an order." Then Archer smiled. "But possibly an order that is open to interpretation."

Malcolm brightened. That was always a constructive approach in his experience! "What do you have in mind?"

"I don't think the Commodore could actually mean engage them, do you? I imagine there was something lost in the wording of the data burst. I imagine a much more likely intention would be for us to track them more closely."

Archer looked almost cunning and Malcolm grinned. It wasn't a quality he would ever associate with the man. And, just possibly, Archer was right anyway - it didn't make sense for Carlotta to be ordered to attack.

"You mean we should go into the plasma cloud?" Malcolm wholeheartedly approved of that prospect. It was better than skulking around outside.

Archer said, "Yeah. I'd prefer to wait here, but with Enterprise's delay, I think we need to be sure the Klingons are staying put in there."

"The plasma cloud will level the playing field as far as sensors are concerned. We're a lot smaller than they are and they'll have a problem spotting us unless we get too close. We might be able to hold-off undetected from their position and still see them."

"That's what I thought."

"And there is an argument that we'd be following Trent's orders." Not that disobeying orders worried Malcolm - quite the contrary. There was no way he was going to be controlled by Trent or by Starfleet, not if he had any say in the matter. However, there was Archer's position to consider.

Malcolm suppressed the sudden anger provoked by thoughts of Starfleet and gazed at the colourful display in the window. The practicalities of this mission were sufficient to keep him focussed right now. He said to Archer, "Of course, we still need to find them in there. That won't be easy."

"No." Becoming decisive, Archer moved to bring the engines on-line and said briskly, "Better get Bailey up here. We'll need all hands - all three of us! - for this manoeuvre."

"Aye, Captain!"

----------------------

Powering up the engines, Archer set Carlotta off on her new heading, directly towards the plasma cloud. Malcolm tweaked his scanner and played around with the ship's own sensors, but they could barely see in front of their noses. They had no option but to keep it steady at a frustratingly low speed.

Malcolm made a negative face. "It's no good. That's the best I can give you, Captain."

"Then that'll have to do," said Archer quietly, his entire concentration on piloting.

The plasma cloud's colours changed as its density varied, the disturbances being generated by sweeping magnetic fields, interstellar winds or some other phenomenon. Bailey stood at the window, staring fixedly at the scene. Malcolm saw his fascination with the view and became worried that Bailey was about to experience another episode like the one on his very first trip on Carlotta, but then Bailey turned. He waved at the sight. "Pretty, isn't it?"

"Uh huh," said Archer.

"That's one way to look at it," muttered Malcolm. "Give me clear space any day."

"Ahh, but then we wouldn't be able to sneak up on the Klingons, would we?" said Bailey, his irrepressible enthusiasm bubbling through.

"I suppose it does give us some options," said Malcolm. "But I prefer to know what we're getting into."

"We'll know soon enough," said Archer.

Carlotta slipped into the cloud, its glorious colour scheme enfolding her within its compass. Faint washes of changing subtle colour played from every window over the dull palate of the ship's interior décor, transforming the workaday, tired appearance.

Malcolm rubbed his eyes and concentrated on the readings. The sensors were almost blind. He wasn't going to get much warning of any dangers they might run into.

As they got further in, an object registered ahead of them. Malcolm said, "Something up ahead, Captain. Quite large. Several thousand kilometres. Too big for the Klingon vessel." He tagged the co-ordinates to present the information on the pilot's display.

"I got it." Archer guided Carlotta in a slow, skirting sweep around the obstruction.

Bailey watched out of the window, tasked with acting as human backup to the struggling circuitry. He said, "A planetoid. There might be more."

Malcolm nodded, tracking through his available options. "You're right. Another, to starboard."

"Yeah." Archer acquired the positional co-ordinates overlaying the course display. "I see it."

"It sure is crowded," commented Bailey.

Malcolm risked a quick glance outside, noting a small rock winging its way past. "The Klingons can't have gone too far in. Why risk it? I wouldn't want to hang around in here."

"My guess," said Archer, speaking slowly as he concentrated on threading his way through the obstructions, "is that they've found somewhere with less junk flying around. Otherwise, I agree - they'd be out of here."

Malcolm expanded the range shown on his display for a brief moment, conscious of the accompanying trade-off in resolution. "The area off the port bow seems more open."

"We'll try over there then. It seems the obvious route to take, and I bet the Klingons are obvious!"

Carlotta crawled along, minutes lengthening into hours. There was no sign of the Klingons, and even Bailey was less hopeful they would find them. At their current low speed, they usually had sufficient warning to avoid any lumps of rock without violent course corrections, but it was demanding of their entire attention. Malcolm reflected that it was amazing how tiring that could be when you weren't even moving a muscle.

They had been feeling their way through the cloud for about four hours when yet another planetoid loomed in front of them, running along in a dense stream of asteroids. Its surface showed up on sensors as a mass of jagged reflectors, formed by impact from passing rocks over eons. Malcolm scanned ahead beyond the planetoid…What was that?

"I think I see them," Malcolm said sharply. He highlighted the shadow on his screen.

Archer noted it. "Looks like another rock to me, Malcolm."

"I don't think so. It's a longer shape overall. I recommend we tuck in next to this planetoid." Malcolm worked to refine the image, sharpening up the sensors to gather more information from that area. He set his scanner to look for boundary discontinuities, and was rewarded with an outline - still blurred but unmistakable. "Got you," said Malcolm with satisfaction.

"Good work, Malcolm," said Archer, bringing Carlotta alongside the planetoid and matching vectors with it. "I wonder if they saw us? If they did, we'll find out soon enough."

"I doubt it," said Malcolm with well-founded confidence. "We're too small. Even with more powerful sensors, we'd just look like another rock at this range, and, sitting here, they won't see us as a separate entity. We're part of the planetoid as far as they're concerned."

Archer manoeuvred Carlotta to the edge of the planetoid. "If we wait here, we can watch them but they won't see us. It's a little less crowded here, too."

Bailey said, "Yeah. The asteroids from this part of the belt have been wiped out by hitting the planetoid. That's why there's a calm region around it. This type of place is usually good to wait in." Then he added thoughtfully, "Mind you, this region is complicated in gravitational terms, what with all the planetoids, and the plasma cloud might be having an effect, too. I guess that's why the field is so dense, except close to the planetoid. I better set the sensors to warn us of any stray asteroids."

"Yes. We don't want any unpleasant surprises," agreed Malcolm.

Archer organised an automatic position-holding sequence. Then he stretched his arms above his head and groaned, rolling each shoulder and his neck. "That's better. Okay, so now we wait. And watch. It looks like the Klingons have found a quiet spot, too." He stood and stepped over to the window. The Klingon ship wasn't visible to the naked eye, but the swirl of asteroids between their positions was an awesome sight, clearly lit by the multicoloured illumination of the plasma cloud. "We won't get bored," he said, watching as a lump the size of Carlotta crashed against another rock, shattering it into fragments. "I'm going to freshen up. Malcolm - you take the watch. Call me if there's a problem."

"Yes, Captain." Malcolm saw Bailey stifling a yawn. "You take a break, too, Mot. I'll let you know if anything happens."

----------------------

The three men gathered on Carlotta's flight deck to catch up on matters - not that there was much to catch up on. The Klingons hadn't stirred, Carlotta was still in position, Enterprise was absent and the asteroid field was providing the only entertainment.

"I wish we could do something," said Bailey, standing between Archer and Malcolm at the window. "Still - we'll soon have them back, right? Enterprise will get here soon and we'll have them back safe." He grinned broadly at the others.

Malcolm shrugged, trying to dampen Bailey's ebullient mood to something more realistic. "There's nothing we can do but watch. At least we'll know if the Klingons get moving again." He watched the asteroids tumbling in a confused extravaganza, with sizes ranging from the tiny to quite substantial. It gave him a queasy feeling. The last time he had been faced with this type of asteroid field, it had very nearly ended in tears.

Bailey was undeterred, apparently already imagining Gomez and Trip successfully rescued. He thumped Malcolm on the back. "Almost like being at home," he said, thumbing at the asteroids. "Some of those look like they have interesting compositions."

It was probably true, thought Malcolm, his practised eye settling on several of the more irregular rocks, glittering as they caught and returned flashes of light. He was grateful he would never have to extract them from this heaving maelstrom. The much tamer loose fields he had already tackled had stretched him to his limit. This was way beyond anything like that.

Bailey said to Archer, standing on his other side, "I haven't mined this type of churn for a while, but Pan here has, haven't you? With Johansson?"

"How do you know that?" demanded Malcolm, jerking around in surprise. He had been discreet about what work he'd done for others.

Bailey beamed at Malcolm, jubilant at having demonstrated his perceptiveness. "You don't get mineral perovskites from the big rocks," he pointed out. "And that's what you and Johansson were shipping. Stands to reason you've been having fun with the little guys."

"Fun!" Malcolm snorted the word with a mix of amusement and horror. "Not where I was standing, or rather… dodging."

Archer gazed at Malcolm in amazement. He jabbed a finger at the anarchic scene outside. "Are you saying you take a ship into something like _this_ to mine?"

Bailey laughed and made to deliver a friendly slap to Archer's back, just stopping short as he recalled the dignity due to a Starfleet captain. "No! You might get to the other side okay, but you wouldn't get much mining done on the way through."

"Then how…?"

Malcolm crossed his arms. Time to educate Archer in the more extreme points of asteroid mining. "You go in - no ship, only you and your EV suit - place appropriate charges on the more desirable specimens, and then detonate them to take them out of the plane of the churn. Then it's easy for the ship to come along and scoop them all up."

"You go out in _that_!" Archer looked in utter disbelief at the asteroids brutally crashing around their endless routes. "In an _EV_ suit!"

"Yeah." Malcolm tried to sound nonchalant. "Admittedly, the fields I've worked in haven't been quite as… challenging as that, but the principle is the same."

Archer said, "That sounds crazy."

"Oh, it is," agreed Bailey. "That's why Gomez and me stick to working on the planetoids, on the whole. It's a hell of a lot easier. Okay, you don't get the very high value catalyst materials and such, but we get a lot more ore, so it works out about even. And safer. We've tried both approaches and find we can leave churns alone."

"There's a chance to get some really good finds, though," said Malcolm, recalling Johansson's views on the topic.

Bailey was sceptical. "A chance, but how often does that come off?"

"Perhaps you're right. But it's how Johansson operates a lot of the time… so." Malcolm shrugged.

"Yeah, but if you anticipate the market, keep an eye on what cargoes are being shipped and what's likely to be short, you can make better choices on the big stuff."

"I suppose so," conceded Malcolm, thinking it through. "But in any case, it's not down to me. It depends on what the particular skipper wants to do. Umm. It _wasn't_ down to me." Yeah - it would be some time - if ever - before he went mining again.

Archer broke into the trade talk. "You know… I've had an idea." He creased his forehead in concentration as he pulled thumb and forefinger along his jaw. "Something we can do instead of waiting. But… no. No… we can't."

"What, Captain?" asked Malcolm. "Surely anything we can do to take action has got to be worth considering."

"Well… I was thinking. We can't outshoot the Klingons. As soon as we reveal ourselves, that'll be the end of Carlotta. Our cannon is useless against them. But what if we throw a few rocks their way, huh?"

Malcolm gaped at him. That was both brilliant and disturbing. He didn't like to admit it, but Archer had come up with a perfect weapon. How had he missed that? He kicked himself. He had been too hung up on seeing the rocks as mechanisms for producing cash. The disturbing thought was… it was bloody dangerous. He swallowed as he watched the asteroids dancing clumsily across the window. Even more disturbingly, he knew he had to try it. Trip and Gomez were languishing on that Klingon ship. Every hour could be crucial. Who knew how long it would be before Enterprise arrived?

He found his voice. "Excellent idea, Captain. I'm sure I could send several asteroids at them. It might not be very precise - won't be at all, in fact - but it could give us a chance to bring Carlotta in close and board."

"That's just what I was thinking." Archer was grinning, almost playful.

Bailey had grown serious. He understood more than Archer ever could what this plan might mean. Giving Malcolm a long look, he said, "I'll help, Pan. You definitely need a recall man on post for this job."

"Recall man?" queried Archer, looking from one to the other.

Bailey said, "Someone who watches out for incoming asteroids and gets the explosives guy out of the way of any that are going to… cause any upset."

Malcolm noticed Bailey's uncharacteristic understatement and gave a wry half-smile. He said gratefully, "Thanks for offering, Mot. I'll need all my attention for setting the charges. We better sit down and choose which presents we want to give to our Klingon friends."

"Nothing too big - we don't want to destroy them, only cause a diversion," cautioned Archer, unnecessarily.

"Understood," acknowledged Malcolm, unable to take his eyes off the chaos he would soon be part of.

----------------------

They were nearly ready for the first phase of the ambitious scheme. Archer was planning to observe from the flight deck and was already in place. Malcolm and Bailey were busy in the cargo bay. They had almost gathered all the required gear together.

Malcolm carried out his final equipment checks, curbing his irritation at having to revert back to a Starfleet-issue EV suit. He hadn't even thought to ensure his non-service one was brought onto Carlotta with his other bits and pieces. With a sigh, he concentrated instead on the explosives - a much more uplifting task. There were plenty of charges but had had to improvise on how he stowed his equipment about his person, and it took time to work out the best method. Unsurprisingly, his usual work harness had not been brought onto Carlotta. Who would have imagined he would be mining again! Finally satisfied, Malcolm loaded himself up and grabbed his helmet.

Bailey was already suited, watching the preparations in silence. He stepped over and rapped on Malcolm's oxygen pack. "Good and solid!" he said, with a wicked grin.

Malcolm pulled a face full of loathing. "Don't rub it in! I only hope I haven't forgotten how to - I don't know - actually move, or anything useful like that."

Bailey gave a couple of gulping laughs. "Ready then?" He wheezed out.

"Yeah."

Malcolm lowered the helmet over his head and made the seals. Then he and Bailey checked each other's suits. Now all they had to do was cycle through the airlock and they would be in the thick of the mêlée. An unexpected shudder of apprehension shot through Malcolm's body. He let out a quick huff of air, surprised at his strength of feeling. That didn't bode well, he thought worriedly, trying to even out his breathing. He thought he had got away with it, but Bailey slapped him on his arm.

"Is everything okay, Pan?"

Malcolm gave a shaky smile. "Never better!" He stomped over to the airlock, lifted his hand to operate the door control and froze. A vision sprang into his mind - a flash of pock-marked rock hurtling past, skimming his visor… almost shattering it. He dropped his hand with an explosive exhalation and a mental curse. Taking a deep breath, he licked his lips and tried again. This time the vision didn't manifest itself, but he couldn't quite bring himself to close the few centimetres between gloved finger and control panel. It was utterly ridiculous! He couldn't believe he was being so weak.

"Hey." Bailey's voice sounded concerned. "Pan?"

"Silly." Malcolm chided himself, chewing at his cheek. He stepped back, gesturing at the control panel. "I think you'd better do the honours."

"Not just yet." Bailey snapped the comm system over to person-to-person, effectively blocking anyone else from listening in. "What's wrong? Before we go out there, I need to know."

Malcolm grimaced. Yes, he supposed he did. Reluctantly, he said, "On my last campaign with Johansson, I had a close call. Too close. Luckily, Johansson was on the ball and pulled me out of the contact zone in the nick of time, but… It could have been very messy - literally." Malcolm spread his hand wide. "Splat! A Reed-sandwich nearly joined the Ertion IV churn!" He gave an unamused chuckle. "It seems to have left me a little… um… nervous." He hated admitting to that, but if Bailey was going to risk his own life out there with him, he deserved to know. "I'll be okay once we are out there - I'm certain - but it's just that first step. Stupid, really."

Bailey moved in front of him so Malcolm could see his face. There was no trace of any derision in his expression - only understanding. "Don't beat yourself up over it. It's not stupid. I've been there, too. You'll find lots of miners have. Any that haven't are very lucky or have no imagination whatsoever!"

Malcolm felt a little easier at that assurance. "How did you get over it?"

"Normally, you just have to get stuck back in there - start with something easy and work up again - build the confidence levels back up."

Malcolm sighed. "We don't have that luxury here."

"No, but you can rely on me to keep a good lookout." Bailey lifted the coil of line attached to his belt. "The slightest problem and I'll reel you in. We can always go back to a rock to finish the job, and we won't rush it." He gripped Malcolm's arm. "Don't worry. You're in safe hands. I haven't done much of this recently, but at one time it was all Red and I did."

Malcolm nodded. "Come on, then. I'm ready. Once I'm out there, I'll be too busy to worry - I hope."

Bailey gave another squeeze and then pressed the button to open the inner door. They stepped inside the airlock.

"Okay?" asked Bailey, as the door closed.

"Uh huh." Yeah - he was okay… Probably.

Bailey activated the decompression routine. The atmosphere vented, vacuum was established and the outer door opened.

"Here we go!" said Malcolm, closing his eyes and pushing off, out of the sanctuary of the Carlotta and into the hostile vacuum of space. With that barrier overcome, Malcolm allowed himself to look around. Bailey was at his side, holding a small scanner.

Bailey pointed to an irregular asteroid, about four times the size of a man, several hundred metres ahead. _"That's the first one on our list."_

They activated thrusters and, keeping a sharp lookout, aimed for the target asteroid, dodging around the other rocks that were seemingly intent on knocking them senseless. As it didn't matter what ore or minerals their choices of asteroid were composed of, they had selected those near the edge of the churn. In theory, they would be easier to reach and extract.

Malcolm's entire concentration was taken with negotiating the route, comparing trajectories shown on his scanner - relayed from Carlotta's short range sensors - and what he could see for himself. Thankfully, although it was a dense field, at these outer reaches it was possible to thread a way through without too much difficulty. As always, it turned out better when you were in the thick of it than contemplating it from the refuge of a nice, comfortable - and safe - ship.

Malcolm arrived at the asteroid and braked to synchronise with it. He was aware of Bailey looming up alongside.

_"Hooking up,"_ said Bailey, clipping the free end of his line to Malcolm's belt. Then he paid it out and drew back about forty metres.

Malcolm ran a gloved hand over the rock's surface, getting a feel for its irregular curves and planes. He had decided to place five or six charges on each asteroid. It was hugely wasteful in mining terms - normally he would use no more than two charges. However, for this job, he needed to create and control a more complicated flight path. He untethered his drill and began work at the first position. The operation progressed smoothly - sometimes pockets of resistance could jam or deflect the drill bit. The first explosive charge slid snugly into its new home.

He moved around to the next position and did the same for the second charge. The practice with Johansson stood him in good stead, and he worked efficiently and quickly despite the clumsy suit. When he had secured all five charges, he transferred their positional and identification data to his scanner.

"Finished this one," he reported with satisfaction, switching the scanner mode back to tracking incoming rocks. "Ready to move on, Mot?"

_"Yeah. Next one is thataway."_ Bailey flung an arm in the general direction of the second target.

The second target turned out to be a pig to work on. Every charge but one had an abortive first attempt to locate it. By the time Malcolm could report the job was finished, he was ready to blow it into bits there and then with the biggest charge he could lay his hands on.

They worked their way inwards to the next target asteroids, Malcolm laboriously securing his explosive charges to the specified ones. They had decided to choose those keeping company with the planetoid that was shielding Carlotta from the Klingons. Those asteroids had low relative velocities so they didn't have to chase after them. However, this approach had the disadvantage that the field about the selected rocks was more dense. It was still possible to navigate, but there were smaller margins for error.

Malcolm was concentrating on the penultimate asteroid. It wasn't too obvious to him where he should locate his charges, and he found he was second guessing himself. Eventually making a decision, he resolved to stick with it, come what may, and began on the first charge, conscious of the lost time.

_"You need to move, Pan. Twenty seconds."_

"Okay," said Malcolm. He had nearly finished drilling the first hole.

_"Fifteen…"_

Malcolm held the drill in position, bracing himself on an outcrop. The drill bit caught on a stubborn piece of rock.

_"Pan… Thirteen!"_

Malcolm grimaced as the drill motor cut out. He tried to yank it free.

_"Ready or not!"_ called Bailey. _"Here you come!"_

Malcolm lost his grasp on the drill as he was tugged away from the asteroid. He found himself gliding towards Bailey, who was holding his position with short thruster bursts as he reeled in the line.

_"I told you to get out!"_

"There was plenty of time," argued Malcolm, watching as a significant piece of rock tumbled past his former position. "That didn't even look particularly close."

_"I told you - we take no chances. And it wasn't that one. Watch!"_

A second rock swung into view, neatly skimmed the target asteroid, missing it by centimetres, and continued on its way.

"Oh," said Malcolm, chastened. "Sorry. I got carried away."

Bailey laughed. _"That's why I'm here. You've got your confidence back, I see!"_

"Yeah. I have, haven't I?" said Malcolm with immense satisfaction. "Let's get it finished then. Throw me back!"

_"I only ever catch tiddlers,"_ complained Bailey, as he freed up the line.

"Says the whale!" retorted Malcolm.

Bailey roared with laughter and sent him on his way.

* * *

TBC 


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: see Chapter 1.

A/N: Thanks as always for the reviews. :-)

* * *

**Chapter 16**

Archer had the flight deck to himself. He was at the helm, manoeuvring Carlotta into the start position. After Malcolm had prepared the asteroids for their new existence as missiles, they had allowed themselves a short break, but now it was time to see how the idea worked in practice. The asteroid field would soon be at the optimum distribution for initiating the plan.

Malcolm and Bailey were in the cargo bay, sorting out armaments. Malcolm hefted a rifle and checked out its power charge and settings. All as it should be, he noted. Squinting along the barrel, he was satisfied that the sights were aligned.

Malcolm thumbed the safety on and looked at Bailey. "Are you absolutely certain you want to do this, Mot? Klingons are violent. This lot have already killed people on Enterprise, and they won't take kindly to their ship being boarded. It's an affront to their honour."

Bailey nodded, his expression grim. "I'm not sitting back and letting you do all the hard work."

"It wouldn't be sitting back. You'd be securing our retreat. We don't want any foul-up, like them taking over Carlotta." Malcolm half-hoped Bailey would agree to stay on Carlotta. That would mean there was one less worry for him to think about - Bailey's safety. On the other hand, the odds were against them, and even the inexperienced Bailey might tip the balance in their favour. Also, given their small number, it made more sense tactically to stick together and work as a cohesive unit. He looked doubtfully at Bailey. Obviously, 'cohesion' was a relative term here.

"Nope. I'm going with you," Bailey said firmly, perhaps sensing Malcolm's unease.

"Okay." Malcolm held out the rifle. "Now, remember-"

"I know! Short bursts, there are two settings, blah, blah… You told me all this stuff." Bailey took the weapon and swung it around, neatly describing an arc across Malcolm's middle.

Malcolm winced. "And be careful where you point it. The safety is on, but, even so, you should never point it at anything you don't want to hit - particularly me."

"Okay, okay," said Bailey impatiently, carelessly swinging it back again along the reverse track and oblivious to his repeated crime.

Biting his tongue, Malcolm gave a little sigh and picked up a stun grenade. He showed it to Bailey. "If I throw one of these stun grenades, take cover."

"Uh huh." Bailey slung the rifle over his shoulder. "Can I have some?"

Malcolm gazed at him speculatively, remembering the havoc that certain less-talented squad members had caused during his early training days. Softening his response with a regretful smile, he answered, "Mmm. Best not." He pocketed a few of the grenades and passed a phase pistol over to Bailey. "The same principles apply for this, but keep it for backup." A wave of uncertainty washed over him. This was not a good idea. "I really wish we had time for some proper training…"

"Well, we don't. I know the risks. It's my responsibility." Bailey conscientiously checked the status of the pistol, pulling ostentatious faces supposed to show great concentration. He glanced up and gave a grin. "I wouldn't want this any other way."

Malcolm watched Bailey carry out the correct procedure and breathed a little easier. Perhaps some of his hurried instruction had sunk in after all? Malcolm holstered a phase pistol on each hip and slung his own rifle over a shoulder.

Malcolm grabbed the pistols and rifle he had picked out for Archer. "Right, Mot. Time to get going. I'll be back soon."

"Okay."

Leaving Bailey contemplating his newly acquired weaponry, Malcolm made for the flight deck, reaching it in double quick time.

"Captain," said Malcolm. "Weapons - all checked out and fully functional."

Turning from the helm controls, Archer ducked his head to receive the rifle and rammed the phase pistols home. He pointed to the display. "We're almost in position."

Noting their current coordinates, Malcolm settled in the co-pilot's seat and checked his own display. The swirling mass of asteroids filled the display screen, with those carrying the explosive charges highlighted. Blowing out his cheeks, Malcolm watched intently as the asteroids swept around to approach what had been designated as the launch location. He was dimly aware of Carlotta's relative position changing, but his display was set to keep its co-ordinates based on their planetoid shield.

"Ready, Lieutenant." Archer's voice was calm and confident. "Go ahead."

Malcolm focussed entirely on the scene dancing before him. He sent detonation signals to charges three and four on the first asteroid. Their representations on the display glowed briefly yellow to show they had been selected. Malcolm held his breath. Slowly, the asteroid's vector changed, and it started to move out of the main plane. He allowed himself the briefest moment to appreciate the effect. It was comforting to know that the detonation signals had got through without distortion.

Malcolm worked through the remaining asteroids, using his skills to initiate the most appropriate charges on each one. The chain of asteroids moved in stately procession towards their first staging zone. Malcolm licked his lips. So far, so good. This was just like mining. But now came the tricky part.

He increased the display's coverage to bring the Klingon ship into the scene, lying unmoving and unaware - a perfect victim. Carlotta was hardly a warship, and the 'targeting solutions' Malcolm set reeling across the display were based on mining projections, lacking the subtleties that Enterprise would have been able to bring. Still, it was what he had available, and it would have to suffice. Providing the Klingons stayed put, it should give a reasonable approximation. It wasn't as if he had precision control of his 'missiles' anyway!

Malcolm chose an asteroid and initiated selected charges to send it spinning towards the Klingon vessel. He sent the other asteroids following in its wake. Correction was needed to the first asteroid - on the current vector it would miss. There was one remaining charge on this one - timing was crucial. Malcolm fired it. The vector shifted.

"Damn," said Malcolm softly as he realised the asteroid's vector would take it right past the intended victim. He abandoned it and switched his efforts to the next best. His attention was barely on the computer projections - there were too many variables based on insufficient input data. This had to be done on gut instinct.

The second asteroid was better. It was travelling in approximately the right direction and needed only a small adjustment. Malcolm watched confidently as the crude missile flew unerringly towards the target. This one was bound to hit, providing the Klingons didn't blast it first. He turned to the remaining asteroids, distractedly brushing away the sweat beading his forehead as he gave his full concentration to the job. There was nothing fancy here - no precision targeting or frequency adjustments, only hurling large chunks of lumpy rock at the target.

"The stone age," muttered Malcolm under his breath. "How we have progressed!"

"Huh?"

"Nothing, Captain." Malcolm sent the last one on its way. "All gone," he confirmed, leaning back and stretching his tense muscles. "I estimate three hits, one definite miss, and the final one is a no go - I can't get a signal through to it now we've moved away. The plasma is interfering." Carlotta had now distanced herself from the planetoid they had been lurking behind.

"Well, I hope it's interfering with the Klingons' sensors, too. They're slow in getting their weapons on them."

As Archer spoke, the flash of an energy beam spurted from the Klingon vessel, skimming past the leading asteroid now bearing down upon their midship section.

Malcolm gave a disbelieving, pleased grunt. "They missed! That plasma is on our side. You know - I think this just might work!"

"Did you ever doubt it?" said Archer with a laugh. "No - don't answer that. I know how you feel. That goes for me, too!"

Archer turned their nose towards the Klingons. "I'm taking us in!"

The Klingons fired again. The incoming asteroid was deflected a fraction from its course, but it was already right on top of them. The deviation wasn't enough to take it past. It slammed into the ship, putting a raking gash in the hull and taking out one of the weapons' ports on its track. Atmosphere vented until emergency bulkheads evidently deployed.

Malcolm wished he could stay to watch how the subsequent asteroid missiles fared, but Carlotta was closing on the Klingon ship, sneaking in on the far side while the Klingons were preoccupied with the puzzling appearance of a flight of rocks. As Archer piloted Carlotta on the final approach to the Klingon vessel's docking port, Malcolm ran back to the cargo bay to join Bailey.

"Ready?" called Malcolm as he took position by the airlock, unshipping his rifle and re-checking its status.

"Yeah," replied Bailey, with a small thumbs-up, his rifle at the ready. Its muzzle wavered, amplifying a slight trembling by its owner.

Malcolm had another fleeting worry about taking Bailey into this assault but shut it down. It was too late for doubts. "Stay close and do what I say," he rapped out.

"Right!"

Malcolm felt the beginnings of the heightened senses and reactions that accompanied combat. Myriad variables were clocking through his mind, plans and counterplans, strategies, tactics - an inimitable combination of cool calculation and driving adrenaline.

Archer's voice came from the comm panel. _"Contact in ten, nine…"_

Malcolm sprung on the balls of his feet. "Okay, Mot?"

"Uh huh." Bailey looked nervous. His hands were tightly wrapped around his weapon, knuckles showing white.

Carlotta jarred as the docking connection was made. Malcolm opened the outer airlock door and fixed a small charge on the corresponding door in the enemy vessel, its zigzag edge unmistakable Klingon design. The charge detonated with a soft thunk, the door opened and the murky interior was revealed to them. The smell was unmistakably Klingon, too, thought Malcolm, holding his rifle at the ready. He leapt forward into a crouch while he saw how the land lay.

They were in a corridor that stretched away ahead of them. There were no Klingons in sight - yet.

Malcolm raced forward, Bailey's footfalls thudding behind him. The corridor ended in another door. Malcolm slapped the control panel and it slid across. He peered through it. Still no one. The Klingon ship lurched and they almost lost their footing. That was the final asteroid, probably, thought Malcolm. A shrieking alarm started up and then abruptly stopped. Another good hit! Malcolm grinned at Bailey, who stared back uncomprehendingly.

Cautiously, Malcolm entered the room, sweeping his rifle across as he checked it out from the door. It was an open area with a number of crew positions around it, presently unoccupied. Possibly it was a secondary bridge or some such. Bailey wandered in front of Malcolm and Malcolm had to pull at his arm to drag him back. There were several entrances into this space and he didn't want Bailey blocking his field of view.

"We wait here," Malcolm said. "For Archer." He dropped behind a console and steadied his weapon, waiting for the first Klingon to show.

Bailey copied him, hunkering down behind a solid bulkhead. Malcolm was relieved to see that demonstration of sensible self-preservation. A shape loomed in the opening to the far right. Malcolm sighted, identified the target and fired. A stream of red energy bolts hit the running Klingon square in his chest. Malcolm grinned as the Klingon staggered. An excellent shot considering how out of practice he was. He managed to get another hit on target before the Klingon returned fire. He ducked as the Klingon aimed and a blast of green disrupter energy cracked over his head. A shot from Bailey missed the Klingon by a fraction, but another from Malcolm hit him. The Klingon lurched and fell to the ground.

"These Klingons are tough," said Malcolm, on full alert for the next phase of the Klingon offensive. "Don't forget - switch to 'kill' if you have to." He hoped it wouldn't come to that, but if it did, he wanted the Klingons to be the victims and not Bailey - or himself. "Do you think you can do that?"

Bailey said uncertainly, "Yeah." He gulped.

Malcolm risked a quick look at him. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, Pan." This time Bailey sounded a lot more confident.

Then Malcolm didn't have time to consider him any more. Suddenly Klingons were appearing from every entrance. Malcolm fired off shot after shot, red energy bolts finding their target or zinging over the heads of those who sought cover. Bailey's rifle spat angrily away and then a phase pistol joined in as Archer took position near Bailey.

Archer shouted, "The scanner shows the cells are two decks down. We need to get through that opening to the far left."

"Aye, Captain," acknowledged Malcolm, not lessening his rate of fire, his rifle barrel hot. He ducked back as a Klingon shot came far too close for comfort, forming a path of crackling ozone. Molten metal sputtered onto the floor at his side.

"Bailey - on my mark, covering fire. Lieutenant - secure the opening," yelled Archer.

"Yes, Captain," said Malcolm, checking about to reassure himself of the enemy positions. A torrent of Klingon fire filled the air around him.

"Now!" yelled Archer.

A barrage of covering fire erupted. Malcolm sprinted across the exposed space, keeping low and weaving about, and sending a few energy bolts in the Klingons' direction. He slammed down against a bulkhead next to the opening, then dropped onto one knee and readied his rifle. An unsteady Klingon made a good target. Malcolm took aim and brought him down. Another bites the dust, he thought with satisfaction. Now he was in a position to have more effect. He fumbled for a stun grenade.

"Grenade!" shouted Malcolm, sending it flying over to the main concentration of Klingons and ducking back down. A wall of air slammed against him and his eardrums protested.

Malcolm ignored the discomfort and settled the rifle back into his shoulder. "Ready," he yelled. He laid down fire as Bailey ran towards him. With a strangled cry, Bailey crumpled onto the floor. Malcolm glanced across in horror, helpless to intervene as the Klingons' energy beams spat around Bailey. He tore his attention away from his friend and kept firing, trying to pin them down.

Archer, travelling right on Bailey's heels, was already past the fallen man. At Bailey's shout, he turned back to assist Bailey, disregarding the fire sent his way and returning some shots of his own.

Malcolm kept his own weapon blazing, while trying to see what was happening out of the corner of his eye. Suddenly, his line of view rapidly changed from target to ceiling. Malcolm found he was in a heap on the floor. His confusion lifted when he figured out his right leg was no longer functioning properly - he had been hit. Then the pain whacked in. He swore and desperately scrambled back behind the shielding bulkhead, chased by a stream of Klingon fire. Bracing himself, he resumed firing as best he could, but his aim went awry as his vision blurred.

Archer miraculously appeared at Malcolm's side, supporting Bailey. "I'll hold position here while you free the prisoners, Lieutenant."

"My leg's injured," ground out Malcolm between clenched jaws. There was no way he would make it down two decks.

Archer took one look. "You two stay here," he said, drawing his second phase pistol and impatiently pushing his rifle back. He ran off to the cells.

Malcolm said, in wrenching gasps, "Take cover, Mot. Are you okay?"

"I'm okay. I tripped, that's all." Bailey organised himself and started up a steady stream of fire. "Trying to dodge an energy beam!" He gave a little laugh at that absurdity.

Malcolm wiped his hand across his brow andhis eyes. It was no good. He had to do something about his leg. He let rip a long, inadvisable burst on his rifle, then dropped it to swing on its webbing strap. Dragging the med pack from a chest pocket, he blearily confirmed the analgesic by its unmistakable colour scheme and rammed it home in his thigh. Almost immediately, the pain diminished. He took up his rifle and started firing again with an improved aim. He had had a glimpse of his injury while he injected himself. It didn't look too bad - a slice across his lower leg, but damn it had hurt. Not for the first time, he envied Vulcans their pain control.

The Klingons were creeping forward, making use of all available cover. Malcolm watched their inexorable progress under the sweep of his rifle fire and concluded grimly that there were just too many of them. They were too close now to try another grenade. If Archer didn't return soon to add his weight to the fray, the humans would be overwhelmed. Malcolm had no illusion as to what would happen then. He caught Bailey's eye and gave what he hoped was a reassuring nod.

"Steady, Mot. Keep picking your target," Malcolm said, as he noted a few wild shots from his companion.

"Easy for you to say," grumbled Bailey, but his accuracy improved.

One of the Klingons jumped up to his full height. With a roaring battle cry, he threw down his disrupter and flamboyantly drew a wicked blade, rushing at them in a ponderous attack. Malcolm sent three closely grouped shots his way, and the Klingon collapsed mere metres from their position, his blade skittering across the deck, almost to Malcolm's feet. Malcolm grunted. That attack was a bad sign. That meant the Klingons thought they were victorious, and were seeking some glory from the fact. Perhaps they had also realised the humans weren't actually killing their opponents. He briefly considered a retreat, but that was no good. Not enough cover.

The inevitable happened. Malcolm's rifle gave a sad, final wheeze as its charge fully depleted. He shoved it around to his back and drew both phase pistols. He considered setting them to 'kill' but, before he could act, a strange sensation buoyed him, accompanied by a brief swell of nausea.

The gravity was offline! Malcolm met Bailey's equally startled gaze and shrugged.

Klingons might be stronger, but, in Malcolm's experience, humans had the advantage in agility. And now his injured leg wasn't required to bear his weight, Malcolm was determined to capitalize on that advantage. He pushed off hard with his good leg, aiming for a far point on the ceiling.

The Klingons were still confused, judging by the haphazard way they were moving around. Malcolm's zero-g training had not been much fun, but it had certainly been thorough, and it didn't desert him now. He impacted on the ceiling, expertly controlling it so his body, and not his legs, cushioned the shock. Using both pistols - still on 'stun' - he took out several Klingons without suffering any return fire. Then he set his next vector and was already safely on his way before the first Klingon fired at his old position.

There was a crackle of Starfleet fire from the entrance Malcolm had been guarding. He saw some new figures enter the battle, already having an effect - Archer and, to his huge relief, Trip and Gomez. He couldn't see how they were, but they were obviously sufficiently well to join in the fight. Encouraged, Malcolm targeted his next victim.

"Bailey! No!" Archer's voice rang out in warning.

Malcolm looked across. Bailey had something in his hand.

"Grenade!" called out Bailey, and let fly.

Malcolm watched in horrified disbelief and then turned to flatten himself against the adjacent wall surface. The shockwave drove him tumbling along it, like so much flotsam, until he crashed to a bruising halt against a support beam. Winded, he glared at Bailey, who had anchored himself to a strut and seemed inordinately pleased with himself. Malcolm took stock. The humans were already starting to regroup whilst the Klingons were still disorientated, but that happy outcome was wholly down to dumb luck. Malcolm used his first decent breath to curse Bailey. Ignoring the chaos about him, he rammed his good leg against the wall and powered straight towards Bailey's large form.

"Give me the rest!" demanded Malcolm as soon as he reached Bailey. A lithe twist put him safely behind cover. Juggling his phase pistols, he thrust out a hand. "Grenades. Now."

"Why?" said Bailey, perplexed by this unexpected and sudden visitation.

"Because!" answered Malcolm, choking back the queasiness his manoeuvres had triggered. "Come on! Hurry up!"

"I haven't got any more."

"Good!"

"I don't understand. It worked okay." Bailey wafted a hand over the scene in satisfaction.

With some asperity, Malcolm said, "We were doing well with Archer and the others joining in, and then you set a grenade off in free fall! It's just not done! It's too unpredictable and you can't move quickly enough to compensate. It's only good fortune it didn't knock us all out!"

"Oh. I didn't know," said Bailey, shrinking away in the face of Malcolm's aggression. "I'm sorry. So - no good at all, huh?"

Malcolm's irritation left him when he saw his friend's stricken face. He said more calmly, "Well - no harm done - this time. Actually, you can sometimes use them in zero g, but I'm not giving you a full training course in ten seconds flat." He added some encouragement. "You're doing well! You'll make a soldier yet! Keep going."

Bailey brightened up at that. "My aim _is_ getting better."

Sweeping his eyes over the action, Malcolm said, "We seem to be winning - at last. Uh oh." A drag at his insides gave the briefest warning.

Malcolm instinctively knew his best descent should gravity return - another legacy of that all too thorough training, lurking in his subconscious. He acted to orient himself just as full gravity kicked back in. Landing on the deck, Malcolm met it with his shoulder and rolled to absorb the impact. Copybook, he thought smugly, continuing the roll to push to his feet off his hands and good leg.

Bailey had somehow contrived to maintain his hold on the strut and was now laboriously lowering himself to the ground. The Klingons had fared less well. Apparently, their previous zero gravity experiences had not prepared them for a sudden switch from weightlessness. Their unplanned plunges had driven the fight out of most of them and they were sitting ducks. Malcolm's fire to pick them off was matched by that of his comrades to seal their victory. He grinned at the pleasing scene as Archer appeared beside him.

"Good work!" said Archer, swinging about. Then he exclaimed, "Trip!"

Malcolm's self-satisfaction disappeared in an instant. Trip lay horribly still, crumpled on the floor near one of the consoles. Archer rushed over to him.

It gave Malcolm added motivation - not that he needed much of an extra charge. He set to, rapidly finishing off the few resisting Klingons. Malcolm saw one dazed Klingon female feebly going for a weapon. He used his pistol to stun her. Another male needed the same treatment, and then the battlefield was completely still. With the zero g fighting and the added firepower from Archer and the others, the humans had won the day - but it had been close.

Malcolm did his duty and warily checked out each of the downed opponents, making sure they really were stunned and relieving them of their weaponry. The disrupters and some impressivebladed weapons made an imposing pile.

Then, at last, Malcolm was free to see how Trip was. He limped over to report to Archer. "All Klingons accounted for, sir."

Trip was unconscious, but his breathing was strong and rhythmical. The hair above his left ear was soaked in blood and he was very pale. Malcolm watched anxiously as Archer operated the scanner in a deliberate fashion near Trip's head. There was a lot of blood but, then, that was to be expected with a head wound. It didn't necessarily mean it was serious, Malcolm told himself.

"Good." Archer switched the scanner off and looked up, revealing a nasty scrape over his right cheekbone. Malcolm's concern lessened as he read the relief in Archer's features. Archer sorted through his med-pack, selected a suitable hypospray and delivered its dose to the engineer's neck. Trip stirred and let out a low moan, still less than half-conscious and his eyes firmly shut.

"Trip must've hit his head when gravity came back online," Archer explained. "I think he's okay. Hoist with his own petard!" He gave a soft chuckle.

"Sir?"

"It was Trip who had the idea of tampering with the gravity. It seems the Klingons had a back up system."

"It was an excellent idea, sir. It made all the difference."

"Yeah. It did."

"Uhh, thank you, for going back for Bailey, at the beginning." Malcolm's respect for Archer had been renewed by that action. Even if Malcolm couldn't agree with everything Archer did, his courage and selflessness could not be doubted. It had needed that brief, frenetic battle to remind him of something he had always known. Malcolm gave a half-smile as he thought that sometimes he was too dense for his own good!

Archer straightened up and grabbed Malcolm's shoulder. "Any of us would have done the same. We make a good team - miners and Starfleet!" He gave a squeeze, looking Malcolm directly in the eye - a confirmation of their regained comradeship.

Malcolm staggered a little as his bad leg protested under the weight of sincerity.

Archer yanked his hand away as if burned and exclaimed, "Malcolm! I'm sorry!" He stared down in horror at the offending limb.

"I don't think it's serious, Captain. It's sore but it works okay - mostly." Malcolm peered at the wound - a neat score sliced across his calf. The heat of the beam had cauterised it, but fabric from his uniform had got mixed in as well. Malcolm gloomily anticipated having the material teased from the wound. He was far too familiar with that experience to be fooled by any reassurances about the procedure. Still - it was a minor hit, and he was properly grateful for that.

"Yeah. I know. You're 'fine'. Let me scan it." Archer checked it over. He raised an eyebrow at Malcolm. "You're lucky. A fraction to one side and you'd be in trouble."

A loud groan from behind a console drew their attention. It came from Gomez, propped up against a wall with Bailey hovering over him in concern.

"What happened?" asked Archer, squatting down next to Gomez and already rifling through the med pack.

Bailey answered. "Molten metal from a panel. It splattered over him." He pointed to a blackened wall panel with a scored track of solidified bubbled metal, liberated by a disrupter blast. Gomez had been unlucky enough to catch the extremity of the deadly spray.

Gomez' right shoulder was a sickening mass of blood and shredded flesh. His already pale countenance was completely white and his lips were bloodless. He let out another groan and swore weakly.

Archer winced in sympathy, and took a closer look. "It's eaten right into his muscles," he said, a little unsteadily. "I'll give him an analgesic, and then you can take him back onto the Carlotta, Mister Bailey. Give him another dose there and we'll see what we can do about getting an infusion administered." Archer pulled out a hypospray and dispensed the required dose of analgesic. "We can make him comfortable, but anything else is going to require Enterprise's medical facilities."

They all relaxed a touch when Gomez sighed in relief as the painkiller took effect. "That's better," he confirmed weakly. "I think it was the very last shot of the battle that got me. Typical, huh?" He even managed to produce a strained smile.

Somehow, they managed to get Trip and Gomez settled back on Carlotta. Then Archer, Malcolm and Bailey returned to the scene of the fighting. Archer said briskly, "Right - we've recovered Trip and Mister Gomez. Now we need to make sure we can get away in one piece."

"I'll disable their engines and their weapons," said Malcolm. "Then, when the Klingons regain consciousness, they won't be able to come after us."

"I don't know about that." Archer said doubtfully. "They could be stranded in this plasma cloud for a long time if we do disable them. How would they get a message out to request help? Huh! If they would even do that. I guess it's against their honour."

"We can't do anything about their honour system, sir. Who knows? They might all kill themselves because they've been defeated by us." Malcolm couldn't suppress a smirk at that. It had been an astounding victory, given the odds. Three humans on a decrepit transport defeating a full crew of Klingons on a warship! He supposed the scout vessel could be considered in that light, given its armaments.

"We can't do anything about their customs. That's up to them." Archer contemplated the aliens strewn about the deck, rubbing his chin. "However, I do have another idea. It'll get them out of here in one piece - if that's what they want. We'll lock them in their own cells. If you can rig some timed charges to open the doors, Malcolm, we can keep them there for, say, three days. That should do it."

Malcolm said, "It'll be pretty crowded in there. Not very pleasant."

"No - but it's not for too long. We'll make sure they have food and water, and tell them when they'll be free." Archer looked around. "I guess we'd be safer moving them while they are still out cold. There are too many to risk waiting until they come around and then herding them along."

Archer and Bailey dragged the alien warriors down to the cells - a difficult task and said warriors sustained additional bruises in the process - while Malcolm got the provisions together. He didn't know what Klingons ate, so he put a variety of what food he could find in each cell. At least, he assumed it was food - it came from the galley - but it didn't look very appetising. Water was already on tap in the cells, so that was one less thing to think about. Finally, with all the Klingons relocated to their new accommodation, the lock circuits were sealed using a phase pistol to fuse them. Malcolm fixed his charges to the doors, set to blow in three days time.

They stood back to admire their hard work. Archer grinned. "Good! We will be well away - and on board Enterprise - by the time these Klingons get free. Let's see if we can recover your forcefield equipment, Malcolm."

Malcolm said, "While we wait for them to regain consciousness, we could also see what they've done with the alien craft they stole and get it back."

"What?" said Archer, in surprise. "I don't see how we can do that. There aren't enough of us. I was going to leave it here."

"But it's important, isn't it?" said Malcolm evenly. "After all, Enterprise came all the way to this sector to get it in the first place. And if it gets back into Starfleet hands, there can be no argument about the bounty payable to the finders." Malcolm crossed his arms, determined not to yield. He might be back on better terms with Archer, but that didn't mean he was prepared to blindly defer to him. Those days were gone… if they ever existed. A ghost of a smile reached his lips.

Archer's jaw tightened at the mention of the bounty. He stared at Malcolm, who returned the gaze unflinchingly.

Archer was the one to break the connection. He gave a small shrug and said, "I guess we could look at the problem, but I can't see what we can do about it. With Trip and Gomez out of action - and your leg, Malcolm - it's not feasible to recover it. Insufficient manpower."

Malcolm and Bailey exchanged knowing looks.

* * *

TBC


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: see Chapter 1.

A/N: Thanks as always for the reviews. They ease my chapter revisions!

* * *

**Chapter 17**

Alone on Carlotta's flight deck, Malcolm checked their course once more. After the frantic activity on the Klingon ship and their labours to reclaim Baby, he was exhausted. Fortunately, they had found a route out of the plasma cloud that was less taxing to navigate than their journey in. Everything was on track. Carlotta was heading for the boundary of the cloud and soon her systems would be fully functional, unless some stray rock had happened to come too close. She now had a companion - Baby tagging along at the end of the grappling lines, nice and obedient in a secure cocoon.

Once they had figured out how to open the cargo hold on the Klingon ship, it had been plain sailing for Bailey and Malcolm to snag Baby. It was a lot easier than the regular miners' job of jockeying about to sweep up lumps of irregular rock. Added to which, of course, they were already intimately acquainted with the alien ship, and this time around, knew exactly where to place the securing lines. They had been swift and decisive, leaving no room for Archer to object to its retrieval. Another one-up for mining skills! That had given Malcolm quite some satisfaction. Archer would have to revise his opinion of the trade now.

Retrieving Baby meant there could be no arguments - Bailey would be getting his finder's fee once the alien ship was handed back to Starfleet. Malcolm was pleased about that. He might be facing an uncertain and probably unpleasant future, but at least Bailey would soon have his brother free.

Malcolm was a lot less happy about the shambles of his forcefield equipment. The remains of the emitter array lay jumbled in a corner of the flight deck - a sad testament to Klingon investigation techniques - although, Malcolm reflected wryly, Trip had probably caused most of the vandalism. Surely it was no coincidence that the most vital parts were those that had been unobtrusively disabled? Sabotage if ever he saw it. Still, he suspected it would be some time before he did any more research in that technology. There was no way he would allow himself to be compelled into it.

The associated data chips nestled in one of his pockets, and his fingers automatically felt for them as they came to mind. He was far too tired to examine them thoroughly. That would have to wait, but his initial scrutiny had been reassuring - he didn't think they had been tampered with.

A twinge in his calf edged from discomfort to pain. Malcolm listened for anyone approaching. The coast was clear, so he grabbed the hypospray he had appropriated and pushed another dose of analgesic into his system. He could always pretend it was to ease the ache from the bruises he had acquired, courtesy of Bailey's grenade antic. But even the leg injury was an irritation rather than anything major, and now was not the time for distractions. He had some serious thinking to do about the future. His future.

His hand instinctively fell on the pulse rifle lying next to him on the console. It was Bailey's rifle, abandoned in his haste to comfort Gomez and later retrieved by Malcolm. And it still had plenty of usable charge left. Malcolm ran a thoughtful thumb along its potent form.

So - what would they face when Carlotta emerged from the cloud? Would Enterprise already be in place to greet her? Malcolm bit his lip, considering the chances. Probably not. Judging by their last message, Enterprise was likely still at the mining Facility, unless they had found some way to speed repairs of whatever it was that had held them up. That gave him some time.

To do what?

A shiver tracked down his spine. He could seize control of Carlotta and take her to Iolla Four. That was a major trading hub in these parts. He could transfer there to a faster ship, and be away from this sector before Enterprise tracked down the missing transport. If he wrecked Carlotta's comms, it would delay contact. Bailey and Gomez wouldn't stand in his way - he was certain of that. Trip might…

Trip. He was barely conscious and not making much sense as yet. Malcolm stilled the rhythmical stroking of his thumb, recalling how pale Trip had been, how ill. Even if Trip felt he had a duty to stop him, he would be in no fit shape to act on it.

Duty or friendship? What would Trip choose?

Malcolm took a deep breath. Did he have the will to fire on Trip, if it came to it, given his friend's current weak state? Hell, it would be difficult enough if Trip were healthy, but a stun now could be bad news unless Malcolm placed the shot precisely. A frontal shot would be better, low down on the abdomen. He swallowed and dropped his head, the necessary calculations feeling almost obscene.

No, he realised with relief - he didn't need to worry about it. Trip needn't pose a threat, whatever his attitude might be. Malcolm could simply secure him in the cabin - easy enough if he had surprise on his side, coupled with Trip's lethargy. A few days confinement wouldn't be too much hardship. It might even aid his recuperation. And Trip wouldn't even have to make the choice - he'd have no option.

Which left Archer.

Archer would be the one to deal with, no doubts there. And also, no doubt, he was already on full alert for just such a move on Malcolm's part. Malcolm closed his hand over the rifle, its solid assurance cool under his touch. He didn't want to hurt Archer, but if he had to…

God! This was all wrong!

Malcolm snatched his hand from the rifle and clenched it tightly, enfolding it within the other. What was he thinking? He had given his word that he would give himself up, once Trip and Gomez were safe. His word!

But… then again, could he properly be held to that? After all, he had so clearly been put in an unjust position, forced to give his word to return into Starfleet's guilty hands. It was an organisation without honour, which had already compelled his recall under its authority. And if he surrendered, he faced the certainty of years in prison. How many? Three, five… more? They would want to make an example of him, and with Trent's connections and the attitudes running through Starfleet, it would be the maximum.

Malcolm's breath caught at his throat. He was strung as tight as a bowstring. With a conscious effort, he deepened his breathing and relaxed his fingers, massaging his cramped hands.

Who was he? Archer said he had changed. Had he? Perhaps he had. A few short years ago, there would have been no doubt what his course would be. That he was even considering reneging on his word was in itself shocking.

He sighed heavily. If he didn't stand by his word, how was he any better than Trent and the others? And he _was_ better than them. He did have his integrity.

Years were not a lifetime sentence.

And if he ran now, he would always be looking over his shoulder. Any foray into human-dominated space would be a risk for him. Did he really want to spend all his life like that?

Malcolm stared bleakly at the wall, knowing with a sinking heart what his path would be. He choked out a bitter grunt at the unfairness of it all. Then he resolved to gain some consolation from the mess. He would use the court martial to highlight Starfleet's deficiencies, to point out to them where they were lacking. After all, there was his abduction, conscription, even going back to the appalling treatment of the plundered aliens. He would do his damnedest to ensure full publicity. Malcolm gave a soft snort. Archer had stayed to fight the AAP from within, to add weight to those who wanted Starfleet to regain its former character. Maybe instead it would be changed by an ex-armoury officer with too quick a temper!

So, honour, duty and pragmatism all brought him to the same conclusion, it would seem. Malcolm's mind was made up. It didn't bring him any pleasure, but it did ease his roiling thoughts. He was tough. He could deal with whatever they wanted to throw at him for however long it took.

He would have to, wouldn't he?

----------------------

Malcolm's decision had given him a fatalistic, almost carefree, outlook. What was the point in dwelling on what was to come? There would be time enough for that all too soon. Carlotta was set fair, Baby was still attached and the Klingon ship was being left further behind by the second. Even the leg injury was no more than a dull ache, but the most recent hypospray dose probably had something to do with that. Malcolm thought that the hypospray might also have a bearing on his improved spirits, but decided not to knock it.

Archer came onto the flight deck and took the co-pilot's position, wriggling around to get comfortable, another victim of Bailey's grenade stunt. Bailey was the only one of them without any bruising. In fact, Malcolm realised with a start, Bailey was the only one of them to come out of this totally unscathed.

Eventually deciding on the least painful way to sit, Archer said, "On course, Malcolm?"

"Yes. Well, as far as I can tell in this cloud. We'll certainly be in clear space within the next hour or so. How are they both?" Bailey and Archer had been kept busy ministering to the other two.

"Gomez' shoulder is very painful, but we've done what we can for it. He needs proper medical attention. Trip is still not quite with it but otherwise isn't too bad. The detailed scans showed no inflammation or fracture."

Malcolm pursed his mouth. "I wish we had got them out in one piece. And sooner."

"We did it, though, and against the odds." Archer gave a low laugh. "Those Klingons were mad, weren't they!"

"That captain of theirs!" exclaimed Malcolm. "For one moment I thought he might tear down the cell door with his bare hands! At least we know they've given it a thorough testing. They won't get out until my charges blow." He grinned at Archer. "He had some interesting names for you, Captain!"

Archer chuckled. "Yeah. He was a sore loser, but I can't say I blame him. I wonder how he's going to explain it to his superiors. At least we know he's not going to kill all his crew because of loss of honour. Not until he's got back at me, anyway."

"Another enemy."

"Yeah. But I don't think the Klingons will ever see me as anything else." There was a hint of sadness to Archer's comment. He turned to the co-pilot's display, bringing up several readouts on his monitor to check out the ship's status. "The alien ship is well-secured," he said, studying the data on Baby. He ran an exploratory finger over the crack in the grappler's display cover - the crack put there by Malcolm on his very first passage on Carlotta and not yet fixed. "This grappler is impressive."

"Yes, it is, isn't it?" said Malcolm, glancing at the damaged display and wincing a little at that reminder of his ineptitude.

Archer worked through the other available readouts, then gave a satisfied nod and sat back. "I'll pilot for a while. You need to sort out that injury."

"I'm fine. We can swap over when we leave the cloud." Malcolm eased his leg. It didn't really bother him now he was stocked up with painkillers, and the longer he could put off extracting bits of uniform fabric from the wound, the better. He wondered if Archer might try to make it an order. That would be interesting. Now they were out of combat, Malcolm wasn't prepared to automatically obey him. It was no reflection on Archer, but on Starfleet - on what Archer represented. The 'sirs' could disappear again, too.

Archer frowned. "I don't know. You look as if you need a break - some time to get cleaned up."

Malcolm took in Archer's grimy face, damp sweaty hair and the ugly abrasion on his cheek. He broke into a grin. "So do you, Captain!"

"Huh! I guess I do. Okay - I'll get cleaned up and be back later. It won't take long." Archer nodded and rose from his seat, waving at the conveniently placed rifle next to Malcolm. "I'll take that, shall I? I'll put it with the other gear."

Malcolm rested a light hand on it. "No. Don't bother," he said coolly, with a lift of his chin. "I'll do it myself later."

Archer met Malcolm's eyes, trying to read him. Malcolm wondered why he didn't just reassure Archer that he was intending to keep his word, but some devilment - a desire to see what Archer would do - held him back. Instead, he remained coldly impassive, still.

Archer took a deep breath. He said, "I have to do my duty, Lieutenant."

"I know."

Archer nodded slowly. "I guess you do. I'll be back when we reach the boundary of the cloud."

Malcolm gave a curt nod and watched Archer leave the flight deck. Was he imagining Archer setting his shoulders against the stun of a rifle bolt? He really should put the weapon out of easy reach - remove temptation - but he couldn't quite bring himself to do that.

----------------------

A revived and freshly-clothed Archer appeared on the flight deck as the plasma cloud density reduced. It was good timing - they were almost in clear space. He dropped into the co-pilot's seat. "Have you sent a message to Enterprise yet, Lieutenant?"

"No. I thought I'd let you do that," Malcolm replied. That indicated his intentions - contact the others in favour of making a break for it.

Archer's expression brightened as he decrypted the implications. "Okay. I'll send a brief burst, giving position and course, and asking for rendezvous co-ordinates. I'll leave it at that. We don't know who else might want to listen in."

"Yes. Other Klingons, perhaps?" Malcolm approved of this caution. It would be ridiculous to risk bringing down a fleet of Klingon ships upon them when they had got this far.

"Yeah, possibly." Archer checked out the transmission attenuation. "It's marginal. We need to get nearer the edge of the cloud before transmitting."

Settling back in his chair, Archer looked at Malcolm. Then he shifted his attention to the view outside the window. He said evenly, "Now is your last chance to make a move, Malcolm. Once that message is sent, Enterprise will know where we are. Carlotta won't have the ability to evade her."

Malcolm's eyes flicked over to Archer. He said quietly, "I'm going back."

"Yeah - I thought you would. I know how you value your honour. I admire that."

Malcolm felt slightly ashamed that he had seriously considered running, but quashed it. It was the final decision that counted in the end, wasn't it? But… "It wasn't an easy decision, Captain," he admitted, fixing his gaze on the display.

Archer leaned over and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "I don't suppose it was. You can be sure I will speak up on your behalf. Turning yourself over without a fight should count for something, too, not to mention your conduct on this mission."

"Yeah, well…" Malcolm couldn't share Archer's optimism.

Archer checked the transmission conditions. "The density has reduced. Ready to send the transmission?"

Malcolm gulped and gave a quick nod. He met Archer's sympathetic gaze and bit his lip. Wordlessly, Archer tapped in the command and pressed 'send'.

Malcolm felt drained. So, that was it, then. His fate was set. "I'll leave you to pilot, Captain." He stood and picked up the rifle. "I'll take this back to the cargo bay."

He stumbled off, his steps leaden.

----------------------

As Carlotta headed with best speed to meet Enterprise at the rendezvous co-ordinates, Malcolm pottered around in the galley, finally in a fresh uniform and with his leg injury dressed. He was making the most of his last few hours of freedom, not that Carlotta had much to offer in the way of entertainment. But, at least for now, he still had a choice in what he did, and getting a decent meal was high on his list of priorities. Although 'decent' might not be an achievable goal, given the starting ingredients…

"That smells good!"

The southern accent was unmistakable. Malcolm spun about in delight. Propped against the door surround, Trip looked pale but he was smiling. Archer hovered behind him with a concerned expression, his hands wide as if ready to catch him should the doorframe not provide sufficient anchorage.

"Trip! How do you feel?" said Malcolm, taking in the bandage about Trip's head and his drawn features.

Trip said, with a credible attempt at a laugh, "A lot better than I did. I can't wait to get something edible inside me."

"Not a fan of Klingon cuisine, then?" said Malcolm. He was reassured to see Trip in relatively good spirits.

"I did my best - tried to keep my energy levels up - but… yeuch…" Trip's expression was eloquent, making the other two laugh.

Archer said, "I agree with you there, Trip. I can't see Klingon restaurants ever taking off on Earth!"

Malcolm pointed at a chair. "Take a seat. Seems like I don't have much competition, then, but don't expect too much. I'm no expert and I only have various ration packs to work with." He squinted at the contents on a couple more packs as he spoke. With a shrug, he added them to the mix. This was going to be an intriguing experiment! He glanced over his shoulder at the others and admitted, "Umm. It might be a question of quantity rather than quality, I'm afraid."

"That doesn't matter," said Trip, as he settled down at the table. He placed his elbows on the surface and dropped his head into his hands, pressing the palms into his forehead.

Malcolm prodded at his creation and shot Trip a concerned look. "Trip, are you sure you should be eating? Head injuries are nothing to mess about with, you know."

Trip dragged his hands away, pulling an exasperated face. "I feel okay. Just hungry. Anyway, I need to get my strength up to aid my recovery. Just dish it up, Malcolm."

"If you're certain," Malcolm said doubtfully, seeking confirmation from Archer.

Archer nodded. "He's had an anti-nausea shot and, from what I can tell, there's nothing seriously wrong. But then, I'm not a doctor."

Trip said, "Look - if anything does go wrong, I hereby release you both from any liability, responsibility, and whatever other 'bilities' there are. Does that sound legalistic enough for ya?" He put on his most wistful expression. "C'mon. Have a heart. It's been days since I ate anything edible!"

"Okay, Trip. Duly noted," said Archer. "Let's all eat."

Malcolm gave a final stir. The food was as ready as it would ever be. The results looked… intriguing. Especially those lumps. Malcolm thought they were pretending to be potato. Deciding confidence was the best approach, he placed steaming plates before his crewmates and set a place for himself. He handed over the cutlery and said cheerily, "Here you are. Enjoy!"

Trip lost no time in shovelling a forkful into his mouth before Malcolm had even seated himself. "This is great!" Trip said indistinctly with a full mouth. "I don't think I've ever eaten anything as good as this… seriously."

Archer stared at his own plate and hesitantly picked his fork up. "Um, yeah. Thanks for this, Malcolm. Looks… good." He forced a smile.

Malcolm snorted softly. He knew what had gone into the concoction and adopted a cautious approach, taking a small mouthful first. He raised an eyebrow as he chewed. It wasn't bad, he had to admit, as he tested the results of his efforts, but he thought Trip's glowing assessment was coloured by his recent experiences.

Malcolm grinned at Trip's unabated enthusiasm. Watching another forkful rapidly disappear, he said, "Soon we'll meet up with Enterprise and you'll be able to sample Chef's menu again. I don't think there are many who can compete with him!"

"Darned right," said Trip. "But I still stand by what I say - this is good. More than good!" He closed his eyes in blissful appreciation, to Malcolm's amusement.

With the edge of his hunger satisfied, Trip's frantic pace reduced to a more measured tempo. As he scooped up another load, he said, "I need to talk to you about something. Something important."

Archer said, "You were trying to say something earlier, but it didn't make a lot of sense. You were still confused."

"Yeah, well… this is serious. I may have got it wrong but…" Trip put his fork down and looked at Archer and then Malcolm. "It's Trent. I don't trust him."

Malcolm raised a considering eyebrow and said, "Neither do I, but so what?"

Trip shook his head. "No - this is something concrete. Captain, did Hoshi say anything to you?"

"Hoshi? No… not about anything out of the ordinary. Nothing concerning the Commodore."

"Hoshi was investigating that regulation that got Malcolm hauled back into Starfleet. She was trying to find out if it could be challenged, how he might tender his resignation… That sort of thing."

Malcolm nodded. "Yes - she said she would, but she never came back to me on that."

Archer said, "Yeah, well… she shouldn't have visited you in the brig, Malcolm. It was against orders. When I discovered what she'd done, I had to reprimand her, and she was absolutely forbidden from visiting you again."

"Thanks a lot," Malcolm said grumpily. He stabbed at a lump of potato, his good mood dissipated by the reminder about returning to confinement.

Archer frowned at Malcolm's tone. "There has to be proper discipline on a starship, Malcolm."

Malcolm grunted in annoyance. He scowled across the table at Archer. How many times would he fling those words back at him? He said forcefully, "Hoshi was only trying to help me. She didn't deserve that."

"Well-"

Trip cut through the brewing argument. "Forget about that! What Hoshi found out was that the regulation - as held in our library - might have been tampered with."

"What!" exclaimed Archer.

Malcolm sat bolt upright. "Tampered with?" he breathed. "In what way?"

"She can't be absolutely certain. It could just be an artefact of how the document was archived in the library, but there were indicators that the document had been altered. She said it was well hidden, if that is the case."

"She didn't say anything to me about her suspicions," said Archer.

"She wanted to get proof first. After all, a lieutenant accusing a commodore of falsifying records so as to essentially abduct someone… It's not the sort of thing you want to shout about until you're as sure as you can be." Trip paused and gazed at Archer. "Also, it wasn't clear how much backing you were giving to Trent. From where the crew sat, it seemed like you were with him one hundred per cent."

"I don't understand," said Malcolm, trying to make sense of this unexpected news. "What was that regulation supposed to say?"

Trip said, "We don't know. Hoshi was getting a fresh version sent to her from a friend on Earth in Headquarters Division. We won't know until we see that, but, if it has been altered, I guess it wasn't originally applicable to you, Malcolm - otherwise why go to all the trouble of changing it?"

"I suppose so," said Malcolm. Trent had been absolutely determined to get control over his work and over him. Malcolm had pegged him as the sort of man who always got what he wanted, whatever it took. A spot of forgery would mean nothing to someone like that. Perhaps, incredible as it seemed, Hoshi had indeed uncovered something underhand.

Trip looked at Archer. "We were having a problem getting the definitive wording of the regulation from Earth. Hoshi was worried because she suspected Trent might be monitoring all communications between Enterprise and outside."

"What? That's preposterous!" said Archer. "I can believe - barely - that Trent might be so driven to grab that forcefield technology that he altered the wording of the regulation, but why on earth would he want to monitor all our transmissions? And if he did change the regulation, how did he think he'd get away with it?"

"I can see how, if that is what he's done," said Malcolm grimly. "I imagine he'd think that, once I was supposedly back in Starfleet, I wouldn't look for alternative off-ship versions of the regulation, and just assume the one held in the library was correct. And you know - I probably would have done. After all, who would suspect forgery from a commodore? From anyone?" Malcolm rubbed his hand over his forehead. This was astonishing. But he didn't have to stretch his credulity too far to believe it might be true. Not coming from Trent. He looked at Archer. "Could Admiral Payne be involved? That order was signed by him. Was that genuine or also possibly a forgery?"

Archer said, shaking his head, "I don't know. I guess we've got to investigate."

"It could mean no court martial," Trip said significantly, looking at Malcolm.

Malcolm stared at Trip in wide-eyed sudden hope. "God! Yes! If I'm not in Starfleet, then I'm not subject to its regulations." Then common sense prevailed, and he added bleakly, "Of course, Trent could still pursue the matter via the civilian authorities."

Undaunted, Trip shrugged. "But who are they? The Mining Facility? You have friends there, don't you, unless you've managed to bug them all! San Francisco Police Department? Out here? I don't think so. And Trent would need witnesses - that might be difficult to achieve once his plan has been blown."

Malcolm ran a nervous tongue across his lips, trying to sort through the repercussions. "I couldn't ask the Captain or Waters to perjure themselves."

"Memory does funny things," Trip said, tapping the uninjured side of his head. He grinned at Archer, who still looked dazed.

Malcolm damped down his optimism. "Look - we're jumping the gun here. We still don't know what Hoshi has found out. Let's not get too carried away. It might be something to do with the archiving function after all." And probably would be, given his luck!

Archer nodded. "Good idea. I'll order an investigation as soon as we're back on Enterprise."

Picking up his fork again, Trip said, "There's more! I told you that part first because I wanted Malcolm to know about it as soon as possible." He paused to eat another mouthful, and then said, "I was on the Klingon ship, pretending to work on the forcefield apparatus. I tried refusing altogether, but that turned out to be a painful experience. So, there I was, messing about under the watchful gaze of the Klingon captain, when some underling came in with a report.

"They moved away, but what they didn't realise was that the UT they'd left with me had excellent gain and noise filtering. It cleaned up and amplified the speech as well as translating it." Trip made steady inroads into his meal as he spoke. "There's no way I could've heard what they were saying on my own, but with the UT I heard every word." He paused to take a drink, the other two paying him rapt attention.

Trip continued, "So, the underling says, 'We've received a transmission from Enterprise and-'"

"What!" exclaimed Malcolm and Archer together.

"That's what he said. The transmission said that a small vessel was in pursuit and on board was the enemy of the Klingon Empire - Archer! - and the guy who designed the forcefield, and to slow down to allow it to catch up. Then the underling said, 'Our contact is demanding his payment'. And-"

"What!" This duet was even more explosive.

"That's right. Unmistakable. Seems we have a traitor. The Klingon captain said, 'Tell him, we've already made the first payment. We'll make the rest when we have Archer, and we've also started to pull our soldiers back from the disputed sector. Tell him his principal should be ready to act on that.'"

Trip paused for another response from his friends, but this time there was only flabbergasted, disbelieving silence. Malcolm stared at Trip. Suddenly, things started to fall into place. This could explain the Klingon's change of course, their reduction in speed. And in that case, perhaps the other things Trip had overheard were true. It was shocking.

Trip continued, "Fortunately, I didn't have to speak to the captain after that 'cause I was in no fit state to keep my words straight. I just kept fiddling about with those field emitters. Um, I think they're all fried now, Malcolm. Sorry about that."

"That's okay, Trip," said Malcolm vaguely. He knew who his main suspect was, but fought to keep an open mind. There was a whole crewful of possibilities, wasn't there? And Trent had gone to such lengths to keep the forcefield equipment out of Klingon hands, even if he hadn't actually modified that damned regulation. Much as Malcolm wanted to believe it, that was quite a strong indication that it wasn't Trent. There had to be something they could do to narrow down the list of suspects. He asked Trip, "Was there any clue about who it might be? Anything else at all? Anything technical, perhaps?"

Trip shook his head. "No. And that was all I heard. I reckon it's Trent."

Malcolm looked at him contemplatively, racking up the evidence. No. There wasn't enough to reach even a tentative conclusion.

"Trent? Why him?" said Archer, eventually finding his voice. "You might not like him, but all we know is that it's a male."

Trip said, sounding a little embarrassed, "I dunno. I'd been… um, taking my time in switching off Malcolm's forcefield on the Facility, to give Hoshi longer to investigate the regulation." Archer's expression of annoyance at that admission was met by a rueful face from Trip, who followed it up with a quick grin at Malcolm.

Forestalling anything Archer might have to say, Trip quickly continued, "The only reason I _did_ shut it down when the Klingons arrived and told me to, was because Trent gave me an order. He said Enterprise was in danger."

"She probably was," said Archer. "I can't fault him for that."

"There was that mention of a principal," Malcolm said, puzzling through what Trip had overheard. "What did that mean? He - or she - is going to be taking advantage of this troop pullout the Klingon captain mentioned? Take the credit for it somehow? That's got to be someone high up, in Starfleet or government, to take advantage of any large-scale Klingon manoeuvres."

Trip said, "Yeah. I couldn't figure that out. Why would the Klingons agree to do that if they're already going to get you and the Captain? They made a payment, he said - untraceable, I bet. Why go this extra distance?"

Archer let out a long breath. He said, "I can see one way it might make sense. The 'principal' gets some sort of credit, so his power base increases. The Klingons… it gives them power over the principal."

"Blackmail," said Malcolm quietly.

"Yeah. Very smart," said Archer. "The Klingons have all the ammunition there, ready for when it suits them to use it."

"We should have known there was a traitor," said Malcolm. "Remember - the Klingons knew that it was my equipment. Took me from the mess hall." He replayed the scenario in his mind - who was where and when. He said meaningfully to Archer, "Trent had the opportunity to tell them. He was outside in the corridor with the Klingon captain just before they pulled me out."

"He was alone with them," agreed Archer. "But the Klingons could have known about you before they even attacked. The traitor could have told them before then."

"True. And we don't know how good their intelligence gathering is." Malcolm returned to the mention of a principal. That was very worrying, and daunting. "If the traitor is Trent, the principal could be Admiral Payne. Chief of Starfleet Operations - that's pretty influential. And very difficult to fight, if so."

Trip said, "Although my gut says Trent, the thing against it is that he hates aliens - 'specially Klingons. I bet that reflects Payne's attitude, too."

"Yes. It does," Archer said. "It would be an unlikely alliance."

Malcolm said thoughtfully, "A man can put up with a lot for personal gain. Trent and Payne might see it as merely using the Klingons for their own benefit. Or perhaps Trent is even more devious than I think he is and he's been on the Klingons' side all along, and been feigning his hostility to them." He lifted a hand in dismissal. "Or perhaps it isn't Trent."

Archer chewed at his lower lip. "We need to find a way to flush out the traitor, whoever he is. We'll be rendezvousing with Enterprise soon. We have to decide what to do."

"Hoshi might be able to discover the source of that transmission from Enterprise to the Klingon ship," suggested Trip. "It would be a start."

Archer shook his head. "Not good enough. That could be disguised. We can ask her, but I wouldn't regard it as infallible evidence if she does find anything." He paused and then gravely regarded the other two. "We should proceed on the basis that it's Trent, at least initially."

Malcolm tapped at the tabletop with a contemplative finger. "Why? I mean, I think he's a likely candidate, but isn't that tunnel-vision?"

"Yeah. It is. But we don't have time to come up with some fancy plan to test every male on board Enterprise. And if it is Trent, he outranks everybody. He'll be the most difficult to counter. If we satisfy ourselves he isn't the traitor, we keep looking with his backing. If he is the traitor - well, we can't afford to give him time to make his move against us once he realises we suspect. So - how do we deal with Trent?"

"We have one advantage," said Malcolm. "No one on Enterprise knows what happened out here - only that Carlotta is returning. There must be something we can do with that."

The three men waited for inspiration to strike. Malcolm considered what they had to work with - surprise, perhaps and… He gave a soft exhalation as an idea started to take shape.

"Malcolm?" Archer had picked up on it.

Malcolm gave a small half-smile. "It might not work, but you know what they say: the old ones are the best ones." His smile widened as a few more pieces dropped into place. "I think I have an idea."

----------------------

It was uncomfortably cramped in their 'Trojan Horse'. Malcolm sat on the floor in the middle of the alien craft, near the door. Gomez had taken up residence where the stasis device had been, before the Enterprise crew had removed it, with Trip sprawled next to him. Archer had the luxury of the pilot's seat as that was nearest the control functions. The one-man ship had become a four-man transporter.

"Right," said Archer, spinning away from the control panel. "I've got the outer sensors and video stream straight. Communicator's ready." He held it up. "Now all we have to do is wait. Might as well get comfortable. It could be some time."

Gomez shrugged around, cradling his right arm with his left, not trusting to the sling alone to support it. "I hope they're gentle with us. I don't want to be thrown around when they grab hold of Baby."

Malcolm didn't blame Gomez for being a little apprehensive. Of the four of them, Gomez had found the transfer over to Baby the most difficult. Getting in and out of an EV suit had been painful for him, although he had tried to make light of it. Malcolm had tried to persuade him to stay suited, but, unsurprisingly, Gomez had wanted to follow the others' example. No one wore an EV suit for long periods of time unless it was necessary.

Hoping to give some reassurance, Malcolm said, "We shouldn't have a problem when Enterprise grapples us. The gravity seems to be set, as far as I could see when I examined this vessel. We probably won't even notice it."

"As far as you could see, huh? That's… encouraging," said Gomez, shifting about again so he was snug in the corner.

"Put it like this, Red," said Malcolm, with a grin. "We're getting a beautifully smooth ride now, and that's with Mot at the helm!"

"Ha!" said Gomez. "Very funny! I'll tell him you said that!" He started to laugh and then flinched. He relinquished his supporting hold on the injured shoulder and groped for the hypospray stuck in his pocket.

"Here - let me," offered Trip, helping to retrieve the hypospray. He checked the dosage and applied it to Gomez' neck. "Better?"

"Yeah. Thanks," said Gomez. "I can wait. It'll soon be seen to, right?"

"Yeah," agreed Trip, with confidence, as he replaced the hypospray. "And the Doc knows what she is doing."

Malcolm felt a pang of guilt as he watched Gomez. "I'm sorry about bringing you over here, Red. Carlotta would be more comfortable, but I couldn't see how this would work otherwise."

"Don't worry about it. I would be feeling just the same there. Hey - what happens if they don't bring us into the cargo bay? Or if the door ends up underneath us?"

Malcolm said, "I'm not certain about the door, but I think we'll be okay. On the Facility, everything was upright, remember? And I'm told it was the same when it was on Enterprise. I bet there's an adjustment made… somehow. I hope so, anyway, otherwise we're sunk."

"Enterprise will bring this ship on board," said Archer. "It's the only way to transport it back to Earth. And if we're wrong about the door and we do end up trapped, Bailey will just have to reveal all. I hope that doesn't happen because that will tip off the traitor."

Malcolm thought about the task ahead of him and sighed. He flexed his bad leg in an attempt to counteract the numbness produced by the painkillers. "I hope I don't tip him off either, whoever it is."

Archer said, "You'll do great, Malcolm. Just remember - it's got to come from Trent, one way or the other."

"I know. We don't want him to claim he was trying to trap me into a confession." Malcolm tried to run through all the different directions that vital conversation might take. This was going to be tricky. He became aware of Archer watching him. He appealed to him. "Captain - you would be better at doing this."

"No, Malcolm - you are just as capable. But in any case, I very much doubt Trent - if it is Trent - would open up to me at all, even if he believed the tale one hundred per cent."

"Yeah. The Captain is too high up," said Trip. "And Trent wouldn't believe him anyway."

Malcolm grunted. "But he would believe me? I suppose he would."

Trip laughed. "Put it like this - you guys have history. Might as well make the most of that."

Malcolm smiled thinly. History! Considering how short a time he had known of Trent's existence, Malcolm certainly had managed to build up some history with him, history he would have been quite happy to do without.

* * *

TBC


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimer: see Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 18**

"Good Luck." Archer's words filtered out through the closing gap as the door into Baby's interior noiselessly shut.

I'll need it, too, thought Malcolm, stepping out into Enterprise's deserted cargo bay. Trent was clever and dangerous. If he were the traitor, this would be no easy task.

Malcolm's leg had stiffened while they had been holed up in Baby, producing an unsteady gait. He limped across the bay, checking around. Baby took up most of the cargo area but there were some handily-placed containers to one side. Malcolm stationed himself next to the comm panel, one eye on the door. With his injured leg, pacing was out of the question, and it made the waiting ten times harder.

He rubbed a finger over the phase pistol held loosely in his right hand. His left hand carried a communicator. The weight of what he was attempting was starting to make itself felt. All he could think about was the ways in which it might go awry - they could tip their hand and get absolutely nowhere. Again, he wished Archer could be the one to deal with this, but he _was_ the logical choice. There was no getting around the matter.

He shook his head. This was no good at all. He had to think positively. The communicator chirruped. Malcolm flipped it open. "Yes?"

_"Bailey. He's alone - Captain's dining room."_

"Understood."

Malcolm pocketed the communicator. This was it. Taking a deep breath, he stepped over to the comm panel by the door and pressed the button. "Cargo Bay Two to Commodore Trent."

_"Trent."_ The clipped, cold voice was unnerving. It still held the harsh quality that Malcolm had noted before.

"Are you alone, Commodore?"

_"Who is this?"_ Trent was immediately on the alert.

"Are you alone?"

_"Yes. Who is this!"_

"I've been speaking to some friends of yours. We should talk. It's Reed."

Malcolm waited what seemed like an age. Then Trent responded, carefully, _"How did you get on board?"_

"That doesn't matter. Come to Cargo Bay Two - alone - and we'll discuss matters of mutual interest."

Another pause. _"Very well."_ The comm channel clicked shut.

Malcolm let out a huff of breath. Trent had given nothing away, but that was to be expected.

Malcolm started towards the containers stacked to one side of the room - the best available cover. Before he had taken two steps, he was startled by the sound of the door opening. Spinning around, he brought his weapon to bear on the figure stepping over the threshold, his concentration on a PADD. It was Waters. Malcolm swore. That man made a habit of being a hindrance.

"Waters," said Malcolm, noting that he was unarmed.

Waters head snapped up. He stood stock still, his mouth hanging open in surprise. Before he could recover, Malcolm moved between Waters and the closing door, motioning him away from it with his pistol.

"Stand over there, Waters." Malcolm nodded to the centre of the cargo bay.

"How…?" Waters stood motionless, and then understanding hit him. "The alien craft! You hid in that."

"How clever!" said Malcolm sarcastically. "You-" He bit off the rest of his scornful comment. He couldn't afford to antagonise this man, not at this critical moment. Instead he said urgently, "I haven't much time to explain-"

"You do realise you won't get away with it? You fire that weapon and the sensors in here will detect it at once. There'll be a full security team here in seconds."

"Be quiet and listen!" Malcolm knew Waters was correct. The minute he opened fire, the game was up. This weapon he had on Waters meant nothing at all - he had to get him on his side.

"You should've run when you had the chance!" Waters said.

"Forget that. I told Trent I was waiting here for him. Did he tell you I had turned up?"

Waters pursed his mouth in stubborn silence, his expression one of frank hatred.

"No… He didn't, did he?" Malcolm said, thinking out loud. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here alone, and you certainly would have armed yourself. I know this will sound crazy, but I have reason to believe Trent is a traitor. That's why I'm here - to find out for sure." Of course, thought Malcolm, if Waters was the bad apple, then he'd blown all chances with him, but he had to take a risk.

Waters gave a disbelieving choked laugh. He jabbed a finger at his temple. "Yep - crazy! I read your logs and always suspected, and now I know for sure."

Malcolm ignored the jibe. "Give me a chance to prove what I said. That's all I ask. Trent's on his way here, right now. Hide over there and listen. What have you got to lose? If I'm crazy, then you've still got me, but if I'm right - if there is the smallest chance I'm right - then it is imperative we know, that you know."

Waters sniffed. "I don't buy it. You just want to find a way out of here."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, think about what I said. Why didn't Trent tell you I had contacted him? He had time - only just, I grant you. And I came back to Enterprise. Would I be standing here if I wasn't telling the truth? As you say, I'd have made a run for it!"

"I knew it! You gave your word - guess I know how much that means, now, huh?"

"Dammit!" Malcolm said in exasperation. "I know we are never going to see eye-to-eye, but look at this in security terms. Please." Malcolm was getting desperate. Trent would be coming through that door any minute. If he couldn't get Waters to go along with him, all their efforts would have been an utter waste of time. As he waited for Waters' response, Malcolm imagined he heard a heavy tread outside in the corridor, but that could only be his imagination. The soundproofing was too good to hear anything.

Waters' eyes glittered. "What did you do to the Captain?"

"Nothing, believe me! He's okay."

"Where is he?"

"Safe, but… Look, there isn't time! Hide over there, and soon we will know the truth." At least, Malcolm hoped they would.

Waters' lip curled and he remained where he was. "You stun me - you lose. You kill me - well, even you wouldn't do that, but if you do, you still lose - only big time. I'm offering you a way out here, Reed. You turn yourself in, and it'll go a lot easier for you."

Malcolm heaved a big sigh. It put him at an even greater disadvantage but he couldn't see any alternative. Reluctantly, he said, "I'll give you my phase pistol - a sign of my good faith - but you have to let me do this." He lowered the muzzle, but kept hold of the weapon.

"That's right, that's sensible," Waters said, encouraging approval in his tone. "Are you giving yourself up?"

"No. Not yet. But if I'm wrong, then yes - I won't resist. All I ask is that you give me a chance to talk to Trent, alone. You watch from behind those containers. I need your word on that."

Waters gave a decisive nod. "Okay - I can live with that. And I can tell you, it'll be good to have you back where you belong, under lock and key."

There was nothing else for it. Malcolm tossed over the weapon. Waters caught it deftly, and swung it up to point the muzzle briefly at Malcolm. Then he gave an amused snort and backed away behind the containers. Squatting down, he faded into the shadows. Scarcely had he taken position than the door opened.

Trent stood squarely, framed by the opening and holding a phase pistol in front of him - and he was on his own.

No security! Malcolm's pulse raced. They must be right. Surely this meant Trent was concerned about what he knew, what he might say? What other interpretation could there be?

Trent moved a few steps towards Malcolm, the phase pistol pointed unwaveringly at his body. He paused for effect and then said, "Reed. I didn't think I would see you again. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot you."

Malcolm swallowed as he saw the weapon was set on 'kill'. He wondered if Waters could see that, too, from his vantage point. Probably not. Malcolm raised his gaze and met Trent's hard eyes. Taking comfort that Trent would have killed him already if he didn't want to hear what he had to say, Malcolm managed a cool response. "You won't kill me because I have sent word to others about what I know. If I don't contact them by a set time, they'll go to the proper authorities."

Trent said flatly, "There's nothing to _know_. And I don't believe a word of your safety precautions."

"I'm not stupid. Would I confront you, unarmed, if I wasn't sure of my safety?"

"I think we must agree to disagree on your stupidity, Reed. You've amply demonstrated that you excel in that department, all the way along."

Malcolm shrugged. "Can you afford to take a chance? I've been talking to the Klingons."

Trent's face tightened but he showed no other reaction. Then he said, "What have Klingons to do with it? Were you selling them your technology?"

"No, but you did, didn't you? And Archer."

Trent studied Malcolm. "Archer?"

"You sold them Archer, my forcefield technology, and me, and you got money for it. And a promise to withdraw Klingon troops from a disputed area."

Malcolm waited, hoping he appeared confident. This was what he needed - unequivocal confirmation. Now it would come. But Trent switched tack.

"Where is Archer? The others?"

"Archer's dead. Killed fighting the Klingons. The others… dead, when the Klingon ship blew. I sneaked a lift back on the alien ship. Scans can't penetrate it. Bailey had no idea I survived or what I know. He stayed out of the fighting. He didn't see what happened."

Trent said, "So - there's just you to deal with." His voice became even colder, implacable. "No one would be surprised if I, sadly, had to kill you to defend myself. You should have come armed."

"Remember my precautions," said Malcolm, all too aware of Trent's finger on the trigger. "What I don't understand is why you are working with the Klingons. I thought you were against alien contact."

Trent studied him, as if considering his reply. Then he said, "One must be flexible. I have only Earth's best interests at heart."

Malcolm felt a surge of triumph at this admission. But was it enough? He had to make sure. "Really? I don't believe that. You've just handed over my forcefield technology to them on a plate."

Malcolm hoped the recording system they had cobbled together was working, and that Waters was drinking everything in. Perhaps he would prove useful after all, as another witness.

Trent sneered, utter contempt flooding his words. "My, my. You _do_ have a high opinion of your work, don't you? Don't delude yourself. Yes - it would be better if we could keep that technology for Earth alone. That was my first intention. However, letting the Klingons get their filthy hands on it doesn't matter, not in the long term. In case you haven't noticed, they're not the brightest species around. Oh, no doubt eventually they will make something from what I've given to them, but by then Earth's researchers will have moved on. Without you. As you have so often - and rightly - observed, you are not an essential component of that program."

"What are you going to do with all that money? Buy some luxury planet somewhere?" Malcolm tried to goad Trent into further admissions.

"Don't be ridiculous. You have such a mundane outlook - no wonder you became a miner. Money brings influence. That is - it is _one_ way to gain influence. And with influence, I, and others who share my goals and values, can do what is best for Earth."

"And that is what, exactly?" prompted Malcolm. The more information he could get, the better.

Trent's coolness was replaced by fervour Malcolm didn't suspect he possessed. "We want an Earth that is strong enough to stand on its own feet, without the crutches of alien races, that cut and run at the first sign of trouble," he declared, his face animated. "How can you argue with that objective?"

Marvelling at the change in Trent, Malcolm said, "What about what other people think? Those who believe we should forge alliances instead. Don't they count?"

"No," Trent spat out. "They haven't thought things through. There is no other safe route. Everything else is a risk." Trent's intensity lessened a little, but his sincerity was unabated.

Malcolm nodded. "So, you imagine I share your views, that I might want to join you?"

Trent laughed out loud. Then he said seriously, "I can almost guarantee you don't. I know a lot about you. You made plenty of noise squealing around Starfleet before you quit. However, even if you had seen the light, why would I want you?" He smiled, the bruising on his face and throat almost completely faded. "You hurt me - now I hurt you. I had hoped the Klingons would handle the payback, but this is better. This way, I get direct satisfaction."

"If you kill me, it will all come out, I warn you." Malcolm was conscious of the lethal weapon trained on him. He had Trent's confession. Now he had to extract himself from this scenario without getting killed.

Trent shook his head in mock sorrow. "_You_ warn _me_! You have no idea of my power or influence. Do you really imagine that anyone you may - and I emphasise 'may' - communicate this information to stands a chance? Do you think they will survive long enough to get anywhere, to prove any of these allegations? My trail is well hidden. We have supporters everywhere. _If_ you have told someone, you have already condemned them. Who did you choose to place in jeopardy? Family? Friends? You have a sister, don't you?"

Malcolm stifled a gasp, trying to hide his surprise at Trent's knowledge of him. He replied steadily, "It's no one you would know about or can intimidate. I told them to transmit the data to interested parties - they don't know what is in it. They will carry out my request if I don't contact them to stop it. But if we can come to some agreement, then I won't inform the authorities. I won't interfere with your plans."

Malcolm knew he had to show he wasn't a threat to Trent, that he was not someone who had to be eliminated immediately. And he had to be believable. Otherwise he was dead. He couldn't stop himself glancing again at Trent's phase pistol.

"You imagine I want to negotiate with _you_?" Trent raised a questioning eyebrow.

"That's why I'm here. I want the charges against me dropped, a way out of Starfleet and money. I'm not greedy - just enough to give me a start. Then I won't tell anyone about all this. Why should I? It's no skin off my nose, and I'll destroy my evidence. You can do whatever you want to do and I'll get the hell out of here."

Trent stared at him for long minutes. Then he said musingly, "Originally, when I was told about your forcefield work, I was going to make sure you returned to Earth and participated in further research. And then I discovered where you were located, out here in this forsaken nothingness. What superb timing and location! I could also get rid of Archer, who was a thorn in our side, constantly countering AAP policies and trying to drag in every sad alien race he came across. I knew the Klingons would give a lot to get hold of Archer.

"So, I get Enterprise out here, set it all up, and then you go and make things personal. You shouldn't have done that." Trent's eyes narrowed and his tone was full of malice. "Now Archer is gone. I had hoped the Klingons would get rid of you, too, but as they haven't, I'll deal with you. I could kill you now, but then I would have to answer questions. It might cause problems for us and I'm not going to let someone like you derail our progress."

Malcolm felt a lift at Trent's declaration he wouldn't kill him. Now, if he could just bring this to a close...

Trent's mouth lifted into a smile of genuine pleasure. Even his eyes were included. "I have thought of a much more satisfying approach, Reed. You are more useful to me alive - you'll bring in more currency from the Klingons. I'll make sure you end up in prison - and you know what? I think we'll add in another charge - the presumed murder of Captain Archer! How do you think that will go down with your fellow inmates? Murdering Earth's saviour! Not a very pleasant prospect, is it? I'm sure I will be able to find some 'evidence' to aid a conviction. But what you should think about - what I hope you'll think about - is that I will make sure the Klingons get their hands on you. Sooner or later. Each day, you will wonder, 'is this the day they come?' One, long nightmare.

"You will be incarcerated somewhere where the Klingons can snatch you, just like that." Trent snapped his fingers. He grinned. "Let them extract whatever they need from you in whatever way they can devise. Let's see what permanent injuries they can inflict on _you_! That will give me great pleasure. Seeing you at their tender mercies."

Malcolm responded to Trent's long rant of hatred with a tilt of his head. He said, "I don't care." He was defiant. He could afford to be. If he got out of this predicament in one piece, Waters had seen enough to save him from Trent's malicious scheme.

"You will care, believe me. That is why I am letting you know exactly what I plan. You can squeal as much as you like, and no one will believe anything you say. You have zero credibility. You assaulted me, Archer is missing - only you returned, with that fool of a miner. They will assume you are trying any desperate measure you can to avoid your just desserts. And the Klingons _will_ come. They know you helped Archer escape from that prison planet of theirs. I told them. You will be pleased to learn that was worth some more in funds for the cause."

"Rura Penthe," said Malcolm bleakly. So, the Klingons knew about that now, did they? Malcolm's mouth dried as he remembered the hostile ice-world.

"Yes. Rura Penthe. And they want you to experience its delights! Now…" Trent moved cautiously over to the comm panel next to the door. "I'm calling security, and we'll put you in your natural habitat behind bars."

Malcolm breathed a little easier. Once he was in the brig, he would - should - be safe from Trent, and Archer and Waters could sort it out. He wiped his palms on his legs. It had been like duelling with a tiger - holding it by its tail. Any misstep and… boom! But tigers didn't go boom, did they? He gave a quiet snort.

Trent pressed the button. "Trent to Waters."

An answering chirrup came from behind the containers. Trent frowned. Malcolm's eyes widened as he realised the implications - and Trent's lethal weapon was still directed at him. There was a repeat chirrup from the wall panel in the container area as the call remained unanswered.

Waters' voice came from the shadows. "Lower your weapon, Commodore."

Understanding dawned on Trent's features. Then fury. His eyes met Malcolm's. Malcolm saw his fingers move on the trigger.

Malcolm dropped to the floor. Trent whipped about, his pistol spitting deadly energy in a blazing arc from Malcolm's position and continuing around to the containers. The beam passed Malcolm by mere centimetres, gouging a furrow across the wall behind him. Waters returned Trent's fire from his hiding place, narrowly missing as Trent leapt back. Malcolm scrambled half-up, looking for cover.

"Reed!" Waters bellowed a warning.

Malcolm flung himself to one side. Again his luck held as the searing beam barely missed. The door to the cargo bay opened and a trio of security men rushed in, weapons drawn.

Trent yelled, "Lethal fire at Reed and over there." He waved his free hand in encouragement towards Waters' position.

"Lethal?" queried one of the men, while at the same time, Waters shouted out, "No! Arrest Trent!"

Trent snarled, "Do it, Crewman! Weapons on 'kill'!"

Sprawled on the floor, Malcolm flung his arms over his head in a desperate and wholly futile attempt to protect himself as the entire space lit with angry gouts of pure energy. He thought he heard Archer's voice before the inevitable happened, and an intense, biting pain was followed by darkness.

----------------------

Malcolm's consciousness returned slowly, blearily. Through instinct, he kept his eyes closed as he evaluated his position. He remembered the firefight, getting caught by an energy weapon. So… was he in the brig, and all had failed… or was he elsewhere? The smell tugged at some memory, but it didn't quite tie up. There was something missing.

He sensed a presence close to him, and then a warm breath grazed his cheek. A low rich female voice said, "You can stop shamming, Mister Reed. The biobed never lies!"

Ah! Sick bay. He should have recognised that smell, but the absence of any squawks and rustlings had fooled him. Phlox wasn't here any more, though, was he? Malcolm opened his eyes and found he was looking straight into those of an amused dark-skinned woman.

"Hello," he said weakly.

Her smile broadened. "Hello."

Malcolm moved his limbs, noting a numbness in his injured leg and also, with a rush of relief, the lack of any restraints. That had to be good news! "So…"

"Yes?"

"So… What happened?"

"You were stunned by several hits. I expect you'll be sore for some time, but I've administered an analgesic. I've also tidied up that leg wound. There shouldn't be any problem with it."

"Ahh. Good. Uhh, what about the others?"

"Commodore Trent and Lieutenant Waters were more fortunate - they regained consciousness quite quickly."

Malcolm pulled a face at that. Wasn't it just typical that those two had got off relatively lightly! But what about his friends? He strained to see if there were any other patients. There were none in sight but a curtain blocked his view of the end beds. The doctor appeared cheery enough - wasn't that a promising indicator?

"Have you seen Trip and Gomez?" Malcolm asked. "How are they?"

"Commander Tucker has a skull like iron!" The doctor chuckled. "He's in his quarters resting, but should recover without any lasting problem, although he still has a headache. I'm about to operate on Mister Gomez - he's being sedated now." She looked over to the curtained-off area.

"His shoulder was a mess," Malcolm said heavily. "We didn't know how to deal with it."

"You treated the shock and made him comfortable. There wasn't much else you could do for him without surgery. I've carried out an initial examination. Unless there are any nasty surprises lurking in there, I believe he should regain almost full function, although scarring is likely." The doctor produced another stunning smile. "I'm Doctor Masusa, by the way."

"Ah, Doctor. Pleased to meet you." Malcolm felt faintly ridiculous making introductions lying flat out on a biobed, but it didn't seem to worry the doctor. He supposed she was used to it.

"And I'm pleased to meet you!" the Doctor replied. "I've read so much about you."

"You have?" Malcolm didn't quite know what to make of that.

"Your medical records, that is. You gave Phlox some challenges in your time, I see! Now, I must prepare to operate. As soon as you feel up to it, you are free to leave sick bay. Let me know if you need further pain medication later." She gave a brisk nod and bustled off.

Malcolm closed his eyes and sighed in contentment. Free to leave sick bay! What wonderful words! He wanted to savour the moment. He heard the main doors swish open and approaching footsteps.

"Malcolm?" It was Archer. "Are you awake?"

"Uh, yes, Captain." Malcolm struggled to sit up.

"How are you?"

"Fine, thank you, sir," said Malcolm automatically, sick bay imposing its old ritual on him. He eased his legs over the edge of the biobed, realizing he was kitted out in an unflattering gown. Seeing his uniform folded on the next biobed, he reached out for it. "I take it I wasn't subjected to a weapon set on 'kill'!" He gave a wry half-smile.

Archer grinned back. "Nope. The security team just stunned everyone in view, uhh, except me! I think I came as quite a shock to them."

"Really? I'm impressed how security handled it. There was too much confusion to take an informed action, so they stunned everyone until they could work out what was happening, putting everything on hold. That was good work."

"I believe Mister Waters had practised that scenario with his people." Archer looked to see Malcolm's reaction to this information.

"Oh." Malcolm nodded and gave credit where credit was due. "As I said, I'm impressed. I might even tell Waters that!"

Archer laughed. "That will be a historic meeting!"

Malcolm began to get changed, his drive to escape from sick bay overriding any lingering embarrassment. Besides, he was still wearing his boxers. "So - did we get enough out of Trent, or do I need to go through that again!" he joked.

Archer said, "Yeah. We got everything recorded. It's all to be sent off to trusted hands at Starfleet Headquarters. Things are going to get very interesting around there. And Trent is in the brig."

"Excellent!" Malcolm said with gusto. "I hope Waters has put him in irons."

"He wanted to!" said Archer. "You know, at last, I think we've got something to fight back with. Some of Payne's supporters will be horrified to learn what Trent was up to because if it's Trent, the trail most definitely leads to Payne. Turning traitor and consorting with aliens? They won't know what to make of that! Others will be feeling the weight of law. Everything will be scrutinized. I mustn't get too carried away. There's still a long way to go, but I hope this is the beginning of a new era for Starfleet."

Malcolm liked the sound of that. "Yes, sir," he agreed, shrugging on the top half of his jumpsuit and pulling up the zip.

Archer leaned forward and squeezed him on his shoulder. "And Malcolm - there's no need to call me 'sir'."

"Sir?" Malcolm rolled his eyes in exasperation even as the word slipped from his mouth. It hadn't taken much to revive that ingrained response, had it!

Archer tried not to smile. "We - well, Hoshi - got the regulation from its source and double-checked with them. Trent _had_ doctored it. That section he referred to had nothing to do with compelling ex-officers to return to Starfleet. There is nothing to that effect anywhere in any regulation. So - you were never conscripted after all."

Malcolm felt his spirits lift a little, but it wasn't quite the joyful release he might have anticipated. "I see. No court martial, then?"

"No. How could there be? You're a civilian."

"I assaulted Trent."

"I didn't hear you say that. But in any case, I don't think Earth has jurisdiction in this sector."

"Not even on a starship?"

"Malcolm! Whose side are you on! Look - forget about it. I ceded jurisdiction to the Facility's management, and they said far worse happens there without anyone worrying. They seemed kinda amused, actually, that I even thought it worth mentioning."

"But the permanent injury…"

"Might have been sustained in other ways. You can forget it. Trent will be too preoccupied trying to save his own skin to get back at you."

"Yes, Captain." Malcolm remembered, however, Trent's ice-cold eyes and relentless hatred. He shied away from those disturbing thoughts. He had a friend to help out. "Captain, about Hoshi… If she hadn't visited me against orders, this forgery would never have emerged. Surely that is in her favour?"

"You're worried about that reprimand, huh? I've had a serious talk with Hoshi. We've come to an understanding - I've rescinded it and given her an unofficial verbal warning instead. She's very fortunate that there was something to find out, and that she did an excellent job in finding it, otherwise it might be different. I think she realises that now."

"Good." Malcolm agreed with that approach. He finished dressing and slid cautiously off the biobed. "I think I'll go and find my kit - transform back into a civilian again!"

Archer said, "Wait here a few minutes and I'll send a steward over to show you where it's stowed. We'll get your gear assembled, too, so it's ready for you when we reach Deross Mining Facility. Then we're off to deliver Baby to the investigators and track down some leads on it. There're a couple of places nearby to see first - but after that we'll be far away from this sector. You'll soon be able to carry on without any further interference in your life by meddling Starfleet."

"Right," said Malcolm. That was a relief… wasn't it? It should be after everything he'd been through recently, but there was just something…

"Malcolm." Archer held out his hand. "It was good working with you again. I'm glad we sorted out our differences."

Malcolm took his hand and shook it. "Me, too, Captain. It was almost worth all of this!"

Archer clasped Malcolm's elbow, his face lighting up, and Malcolm responded with a broad answering smile.

----------------------

The four men crowded around the airlock where Enterprise was docked, making their farewells at the boundary between the regulation of Starfleet and the disorder of the mining Facility.

"And if you come across any tasty Klingon recipes…" said Trip, with a significant look at Gomez.

"I'll be sure to send them your way," answered Gomez, his thin lips quirking in a slight smile.

"No - you'll be sure to vaporize them!" said Trip, in mock annoyance, which dissolved into an irrepressible grin.

"I'll try to remember, Commander."

Bailey laughed. "Don't worry, Trip! We're steering well clear of any Klingons from now on, if I have any say in the matter."

"Yeah. Good idea," said Trip. "Anyway, thanks for everything, Mot. It could have turned out bad, and it's down to you we got away."

"He did have some help!" protested Malcolm laughingly.

"Yeah. I did," agreed Bailey. "My grenade!"

Malcolm sighed in genial exasperation while the other two chuckled.

"We better go," said Gomez. He adjusted the sling supporting his right arm and then picked up the small case that contained medical supplies for his healing wound. "I want to get home. Make sure the Mariposa is okay. Bye, Commander. Coming, Mot?"

"Bye then, Trip!" said Bailey, lifting his kitbag and hurrying after Gomez.

"You've got a couple of good friends there, Malcolm," Trip commented, watching them leave.

"Yes. I know," agreed Malcolm.

"And you're safely home now, too. Or is that the Mariposa?"

"Here, I suppose, if anywhere. I work on other ships as well, of course. Not just the Mariposa." Malcolm looked about at the familiar decay of the Facility. The station didn't really feel much like home. Not yet.

"So, what now?"

"For me? Well, I did have a couple of contracts lined up, but with everything that went on, they were cancelled. I thought I'd give a hand with any repairs needed on those mining ships that helped fight off the Klingons. It's the least I can do. They didn't have to help us." Malcolm grinned. "Plenty to keep me busy anyway."

"Yeah. I can see that," said Trip.

"Uh huh. And then I thought I'd see if Gomez wants me on his next campaign. Until that shoulder heals, they'll be struggling. I won't even charge him!"

"Sounds like you've got it all worked out." Trip surveyed the remaining, and quite considerable, pile of gear around him. "Are you sure you don't want a hand with all this stuff, Malcolm?"

Malcolm laughed. "Nah! It's okay, Trip. I'm not in a hurry and I prefer to do it myself - then I know where everything is and that it's accounted for. Anyway, I think the Captain is anxious to get under way."

Trip smiled. "Time to say goodbye again, huh? I'll be sorry not to have you around… bugging me!"

"You've got Waters!"

"He's not in the same class as you, Malcolm!" said Trip, with a lift of his eyebrows.

Malcolm crossed his arms and grinned. "I'll miss you, too, Trip. And other things as well. I had forgotten the buzz I get on a mission."

"The door is always open," said Trip with a dramatic sweep of his arm towards the airlock.

Malcolm eyed Trip, and decided he might as well tell him what had been on his mind. "Mmm. I was thinking about that."

"Really!" Trip pounced on the tentative musing, his expression one of hopeful amazement. "You want to re-join Starfleet!"

"Thinking about it - only thinking - but that's a lot more than I imagined I would be doing, not that long ago. I want to see how the fallout of all this affects the Starfleet upper echelons, and then… Well, who knows? We shall see." Malcolm gave a quiet snort. "I'm not sure how I'd take to following orders again." Yeah - he had certainly discovered a strong independent streak since he had left Starfleet.

Trip beamed. "This..." He trailed off and waved his arm around at the Facility. "I can see why you get a kick out of some of this stuff, but you know… That'll always be waiting. If you wait too long to re-join Starfleet, you'll end up the oldest lieutenant in its history! And admit it - you're dying to know what that alien ship is all about, aren't you?"

Malcolm laughed and shook his head. "As I said, I'm thinking about it. I'll make up my own mind, thank you very much." He became more serious. "I don't suppose we'll see each other for some time, anyway. I'll try to write."

Trip said thoughtfully, "Hhmm. I have some leave owing. A lot of leave as it happens. Bailey said you were all set for a jaunt to some warm planet when the compensation comes through for that alien ship. I might just tag along."

"It's business, not pleasure, Trip," cautioned Malcolm.

"No reason why we couldn't mix both. C'mon, how long is it since you've had some real fun? You need me to show you where to sniff it out!"

Malcolm laughed. "Whatever you say, Trip. Now…" He held out his hand. "Goodbye."

Trip took it and then pulled him into an unexpected hug. "Bye, Malcolm. And good luck!"

They parted and then Trip gave a last wide grin and returned to Enterprise.

Malcolm watched as the airlock door cycled shut, wondering at the sense of loss he felt. Perhaps Starfleet was beckoning sooner rather than later, after all?

----------------------

End

* * *

A/N: So, there we are. I hope the ending worked - I am just sorry that it's finished now!

I enjoyed writing this story and exploring another part of the Star Trek Universe. I was uncertain how many people would be interested in it, and so it was great to discover there were some enthusiastic readers out there to share it with me. :-)

I am very open to constructive criticism of any aspect.

Once more, I want to give a huge thank you to Rusty Armour. Without her encouragement (and beta reader skills) this would still be on my hard drive.

And also, great thanks to everyone who has taken some time to give a review, particularly those dedicated souls who managed several. I really did appreciate every one. So, thank you to (and hoping I haven't missed anyone out - let me know if I have!):

RoaringMice, JadziaKathryn, firebirdgirl, volley, Tata, spootycup, Salhawke, PJinNH, Estellio, Skye29, Queen of Fairyland, dottid, JennMel, HoVis, Rodianer, STC, The Libran Iniquity, Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain, The One Forgotten and Rusty Armour.

* * *


End file.
